The Wife of the Phantom of the Opera
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: Previously a oneshot, now a collection of scenes from the life of a not so average wife...
1. Faust

It was not until "love" was mentioned that he became upset.

It had been foolish, to bring him to see _Faust_. I had not even intended to, when I had mentioned that it was coming to the nearby opera-house; I had seen it in the papers, and felt the need to immediately share my enthusiasm with everyone—and, of course, Erik was first on my list of sharing anything at all, from life-altering epiphanies to the little things, like the disgusting wad of hair you find in the shower drain. It had never occurred to me that he would act on that enthusiasm—and on his prior knowledge of _Faust _being one of my favorite operas—and do something as rash as to arrange for tickets to be purchased.

We had attended the opera-house before, of course; one cannot expect a pair of opera fanatics to live nearby an opera-house and never attend. I had made all the arrangements, had explained to the management that my husband would be arriving early enough and departing late enough that he would not encounter other opera-goers; he had not taken well to this, until I had also explained that my husband had large sums of money, and was more than willing to make compensations for the extra efforts that the staff would have to make. Upon reaching _that _understanding, he had been more than willing to explain to each and every staff member, from employee of the month to employee-for-a-week, that the eccentric, masked Frenchman wandering about the halls was more than permitted to be there, and was expected to be treated with utmost respect.

I believe he also mentioned the money to them, for they always went out of their way to be kind to us, and I am under the suspicion that they were after a special tip.

So, when _Faust _came to the opera-house, he bought tickets—without my knowledge. He surprised me with them, by leaving them lying atop his pillow. It was truly a lovely thing to awake to; despite loving the opera, I had—and he knew this—never been able to see it, in person, and without Erik would never have been able to see it from such a wonderful—from such an expensive—vantage point. As was usual, he had the best seats in the house, and I do believe he was proud of himself for that.

I should never have accepted the tickets. Or perhaps, I should have taken his gentle suggestion of attending the opera with a friend, as opposed to with him. _Faust _and its underlying subject matter made him tense, and I above all others understood that. I will never know what possessed me to argue against him, to convince him to go with me. I adored the opera. I adored him. It only made sense, at the time, that I should adore them both simultaneously.

As I said, it was not until mention of love that he became upset. He had born the opera well, for a time, but as you may or may not know, it is not long before love is mentioned, in _Faust_. It started as a gentle squirming in his seat, evolved to a vice-like grip on my hand, progressed to a gentle sniffling, before launching itself into an utter attack. He threw himself into my arms, draped himself across me and clung as if to release me would be immediate death. He cried quietly—I will give him this much credit. Never once did a peep of his grief reach those around us.

"Let's go," I suggested quietly.

"No, no, you love _Faust_," he argued weakly, though I knew well enough that this was just a valiant attempt at not appearing pleased with my offer of departure.

"No," I replied gently; "I enjoy _Faust_—I love **you**."

He nodded to this, and moved to stand. I tugged him into his seat again, however, and rose to my feet. "I'll have them bring the car 'round," I told him; he knew as well as I that he should not stand out on the sidewalk awaiting the valet. He nodded, and I exited the private box, to make the somewhat daunting trip down to the front. The staff knows my face well enough; they leapt into action merely upon sighting me, though with somewhat confused expressions. After all, the first intermission was not even quite upon us yet, and already the Frenchman and his wife are leaving. It is an anomaly, but they are well-trained, and do not ask questions. I could nearly kiss them, for never asking questions.

As I neared the private box, on my return trip to fetch Erik, I heard a crash. Immediately, my heart began to thud uncomfortably in my chest—no generic human being throws a temper-tantrum during an opera. I hastened my steps, until I was quite nearly running, but my progress became significantly hindered by the slowly growing crowd gathered around the door to our box. I am sure those nearby me could taste the fear that was slowly consuming me, as I pushed through the crowd. I could hear Erik shouting something, though the words were unintelligible—still, there was no mistaking that voice.

I popped through the barrier, finally, and was stunned into stillness by the sight that I was met with. Erik stood over one of the staff members, holding himself in a triumphant pose, as he looked down at the poor boy on the other end of his lasso. That dreadful thing—the mere sight of it still sickens me to this day. I lunged forward, closing my hands around his arm. "Erik!"

When he turned to look at me, I was met with a sight both foreign and terrifyingly familiar. The eyes that looked down on me were not those of my husband, but those of the Opera Ghost of old. Angry, pained, and utterly, unquestionably mad. I fought to keep the look of horror out of my eyes, out of my expression—and quite certainly, out of my voice—as, quickly as thought, he had removed the lasso from the boy's neck, and turned fully to face me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the boy crawling away towards the box door; I offered a prayer of thanks, even as I moved to face what was to come. For one petrifying moment, I thought he would use the lasso on me. I had seen him do it enough times; I knew how quickly—and how slowly—he could steal life away with that simple bit of rope.

He did not, however; merely, a hand rose, to wrap its fingers around my neck and close with deadly certainty. I did not fight against that grip. I met his eyes squarely, and when I raised my hands, it was not to grab at the thing around my neck, but rather to rest each small palm against his neck. "Erik," I managed; he did not seem to hear me.

"You were with him again, weren't you?" he hissed, fingers tightening. I struggled to shake my head, and shoved aside the panic that was threatening to overtake my actions.

"Erik.. there is.. no one...!" I gasped.

"Liar!" he yelled, swinging me around so that he could shove me against the wall. I heard someone yell to contact the police; I hollered back that they should not, and was met with the beautiful reply of the manager, that "of course" they would not contact the police, over a silly argument. There were cries of outrage amongst the steadily swelling crowd, but they were ignored.

"You were with that young man, weren't you?" Erik demanded of me, pressing me tighter against the wall. My breath was slowly fading from my lungs; vision clouded, darkened. "You were with the handsome young man—oh, he is so handsome, isn't he, Christine?"

Again, the faintest of movements implying a head-shake in the negative, and I could see something in his eyes soften ever so slightly. "Do you swear to me, Christine, that there is no one?"

I managed a nod. Tears were swelling in my eyes; I almost could not focus on him any longer. "Erik," I squeaked out, "I was getting.. the car. The car... so that we could.. go home! Home... Together... You, and I..."

Just as my vision was closing in on the scene, his fingers vanished from around my neck. His other hand joined its partner to wrap me in the tightest, most desperate of embraces; I returned it with all the passion, all the ferocity, that he displayed. No love was lost between us; no love ever was. My husband was a broken man, and I had accepted that, accepted his shortcomings, and had easily learned to see past each and every one of them.

The crowd was near silent, as he and I turned to face the door. A path was cleared, and with all the dignity befitting newly-crowned royalty, we made our departure, his left arm around my waist, my right around his. He handed me the car-keys without hesitation—he knew he was in no shape to drive. He was, in fact, not much in shape to do anything at all. He usually refused to allow me to drive; he believed that I had no ability to handle the vehicle—despite my having grown up with muscle cars and diesel engines.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, I used one hand to steer—and occasionally threw in a knee, for extra support—and used the other to find and insert a CD. It was a collection of piano pieces, each selected for its beauty and its peacefulness. I left the volume at medium-intensity, and settled back into my seat. It was only moments later that Erik leaned over to turn the volume up nearly as high as it would go, which was quite high. The car was of high quality—a very expensive luxury vehicle—and had a speaker system that almost made the car well worth its ridiculous price.

Of course, no price seemed ridiculous to Erik. It was not that he had an endless sum of money, but rather that when he ran out... well, he would run out. I do not think it ever really occurred to him to care. He had his prized possession—me—and to him, that was, as corny as it may sound, all the riches he could ever need.

We veered off the highway and onto the back roads that we both preferred to take, on the way to his estate. It was later than I had believed—already, the moon was high in the sky, casting a beautiful glow on the empty fields around us. The rye grass had recently begun growing; as the wind swept across the fields, it danced and wavered like a lush green ocean. I felt almost tempted to leap into it, and swim through its immaculate depths.

Impulsively, I reached over and rolled down the windows. It was Erik who opened the sun roof, to allow the ultimate amount of wind current in the car. One hand reached forward to flip off the car lights, and we coasted down the abandoned road, with only the piano to fill the night air. I glanced over at him, to find him looking steadily at me—or, rather, at my neck. He could not see the bruises in the darkness, not even with his impressive night vision, but he did not need to. They had formed often enough, throughout our time together, that I imagined he could see them just from memory alone.

It was my husband, then, that reached over and laid one large hand on my thigh, and gave it a gentle squeeze of apology. My hand patted his for a moment, before reaching over and removing his mask. I tossed it onto the backseat, and he tipped his head back to relish in the wind on that suffocated skin. It was difficult to concentrate on the road, when he was sprawled out in such glory in the car seat next to me. He looked so peaceful, illuminated only by moonlight; his face was just a face to me now, was just another part of the body that made up my love—no more and no less than was his hand, or his kneecap, or his elbow, or any other such random body part.

His head turned to look at me, caught me in the act of watching him—and thus not watching the road—for far longer than was wise. My head immediately snapped forward, and I heard him chuckle. Another glance was stolen in his direction, and this time he held my gaze.

"I love you," he mouthed.

"I love you too," I whispered in reply, though I am sure he could not hear me, for at that moment the piano swelled and filled the car, filled the mind, with its beauty, and left room for no sound and no thought, other than the music. The heart, though, could not be filled; it beat pure, unadulterated love, with every beat; it never faltered in its own miniature symphony of devotion. I shivered with the intensity of the emotion swelling in my core, and I think that he did too—though, I cannot be sure, for at that point we were one. Any motion made felt as if both of us had made it, in unison. It was the ultimate joining, the ultimate union. I could feel my thigh underneath his hand, as surely as I could feel his hand atop my thigh. For one terrifying moment, I felt as if I could feel him feeling me, feeling him, feeling my thigh beneath his hand.

And then we were past the fields, past the old abandoned barns, past the shades of generations earlier, done with the beauty of the night. The piano piece ended, and another began, just as beautiful as the last; he and I immersed ourselves in the music, and felt our souls drawn from our bodies, to hover against the ceiling of the car. There, they entwined themselves with each other, just as they had every other night for all our lives. We did not become one; we would never become one; because, we were never two. Always, we were one.

I again looked over at him—him, my husband. I smiled, and he smiled, and then he shut his eyes, to indulge in the simple pleasure of the music and the wind. I longed to join him in that reverie, but contented myself with glances of his own ecstasy, while navigating the twists and turns of old country roads as we slowly wound our way closer to home.

Before we had quite arrived, I pulled the car over, where there still was no light other than the moon. Just around a curve, a sliver of light from a street lamp could be seen, but both of us pretended that we had no hint of the world around us. I shifted so that I was looking at him, at Erik, at my loving and loved husband, and he leaned over, and we kissed. It was a simple kiss—some would call it chaste—but nothing that passed between Erik and I was truly chaste. He resumed his proper position, though I hesitated another moment, just to look at him, before driving up to the estate's gates—positioned quite coincidentally near to the afore-mentioned street lamp.

He replaced his mask, for the benefit of the help, as we parked the car in the garage. Possessions were gathered and made inventory of, before we locked the car—and, then, the garage—and made our way up to the door of the house. Our butler, Henri, met us there and admitted us entrance. I nodded my head graciously; he smiled softly, though his eyebrows were knit with concern. I knew he could see the bruises on my neck, and I also knew that he understood. He knew my husband almost as well as I did; there would be no need to explain.

Erik and I made the long trek up to our bedroom, and we each went our separate ways for a moment, to change from eveningwear to sleepwear. We met again beside the bed, and immediately wrapped ourselves in each other's arms. His mask he placed on the bedside table, and we settled into bed beside one another. No physical union was necessary on this night; I knew he was sorry, he knew I forgave him, and we wanted nothing more than to hold one another and indulge in the love of the other. I felt his lips press against my forehead, and I tipped my face upwards. He granted my request—his lips melded with my own, as our bodies pressed tightly enough that, for a moment, I almost believed I would sink into him and become a part of him.

As I drew back from the kiss, to settle my head onto the pillow, I locked gazes with him. Already, his eyelids were sagging; I could feel his grip on me becoming less earnest, and more casual, as he drifted into sleep. I began humming softly, a lullaby that my father had once sung to me, and his eyes nearly glazed, before shutting. His breathing evened, deepened, steadied. I settled against him, burying my face against his shoulder, and allowing my own eyes to shut.

"I love you," I murmured against his chest. Only the beating of his heart, in perfect rhythm with my own, stood as a reply. It was all the reply I needed, though—from him, nothing more than an acknowledgement of the beating of his heart was required to express his love for me.

He. Him. My husband. My love. My Erik.

My Phantom of the Opera.


	2. Hopes and Dreams

We had not believed it was possible. We had never dreamed it would be possible. We had never dared to hope. We felt it was a much better idea to avoid the thought of it, avoid risking a disappointment so drastic that it could send Erik into an irreparable madness.

That was why I had not brought him with me, today. There was no way; it was impossible. I had not told him where I was going. He would never have listened to reason, if I had—and if I had lied about the reason behind my journey, he would have insisted on coming with me, and that would have only led to both a discovery of my true purpose, and a realization that I had lied, and I had resolved to never lie to him again.

Because of our steady determination to not believe this thing possible, it was a shock when the doctor told me that it was. In fact, not only was it possible, he said, but it had happened. It was truth, it was a dream made real.

I fished the car keys out of my purse with trembling hands. I fumbled with them, trying and failing to insert the key into the door lock for several moments before giving up and using the "Unlock" button on the remote. I sank into the leather seat, hearing its replying groan with something of relief; the sound, as simple as it may have been, was a familiar one, and my mind was groping desperately for the familiar. I sat for a long time, staring at the top of the steering wheel, before I cut the car on and pulled out of the parking lot.

I have to admit, I did not pay much attention to the road. My body went through the motions of driving the car, but my mind had very little to do with the actions. My mind kept repeating the doctor's words, hearing them over and over again. What would Erik say? How would he react? I raised one shaking hand and used it to push unruly curls away from my face. I had to slam on the brakes to make my turn; I was too distracted even to keep track of where I was on the road. With my temper slowly rising, I stomped down on the accelerator, taking out my frustration by forcing the car to speed away from the intersection. My irritation only increased when the car further proved itself worthy of Erik's money and handled the acceleration with an immaculate purr.

I had always viewed the placement of our home as convenient—we were removed from the town, but close enough that the trip in and out was not at all inconvenient. This afternoon, however, the quick trip was far less than appreciated; I made a loop twice, drove back to town and filled the car's gas tank, and made another loop before admitting that I could not put it off, and returning home.

I parked the car, locked it and the garage, and walked up to the house. Henri met me at the door, opening it and giving me a head-nod of greeting. It wasn't until he had straightened that he saw my face. I had been attempting to put on the best of faces, but apparently had not succeeded. I moved to hurry past him, but he took gentle hold of my arm and tugged me back to stand in front of him. He was only a dozen or so years older than me, but as those eyes gazed down at me, I felt as if I were beneath the scrutiny of my father.

"Christine?" he asked quietly. "Are you ill? You look as if you've seen a—" He hesitated, and smiled ever so slightly. "Well, you look pale," he amended.

I nodded, but changed my mind mid-nod and averted to shaking my head. "I am fine, I think," I told him with a small smile.

"Are you sure? You haven't.. eaten much, lately, I've noticed. And Erik—he told me that you had been sick, lately."

I winced at his words. Had it been so obvious? And all that time, I had thought I was being sneaky about the upset stomach that I now knew the reason for. "Oh, Henri." I sighed, and patted the hand on my arm. "We shall see." What else could I say? I certainly could not tell him before I told Erik.

With only that cryptic statement to keep him company, I drew away from him and made my way up the stairs, to the bedroom. Erik was, I assumed, in his study; he was nearly always in his study. In the beginning of our days outside of the Opéra Garnier, he had left nearly everything to Henri. The more time he had spent away from those dark cellars, however, the more he had wanted to do; and, soon, Henri's responsibilities had reduced down to that of butler, and little more. Erik hired a lawyer and an accountant, and began to conduct his own business meetings—mostly, by phone conferences—and retired Henri from all the afore-mentioned positions.

Admirably, he continued to pay Henri full salary.

I dropped my purse down on the bed, and then turned and walked into the bathroom. I braced my hands on the edge of the sink as I peered into my reflection's eyes. How was I going to tell Erik?

"Christine," I said firmly, "you're just going to have to suck it up and tell him."

And then: "Tell me what?"

My breath caught in my throat. For just a moment, I thought I would faint. I raised my head slowly and turned to see him standing in the doorway, his face drawn and unreadable. "Uhm, I..."

"Tell me _what_, Christine?" he repeated; his expression did not change, but his anger was obvious enough, in both voice and eyes.

I stepped away from the sink and towards him, hands raising to press against his chest. I did not take my eyes away from his; every movement was calculated, chosen by way of what seemed like a lifetime of trial-and-error. If I looked away, Erik would read that as guilt, or even worse, fear; I would never have a chance to explain myself. "Erik," I began slowly. "I don't know how to say this, my love, but—"

"Just tell me, Christine." I flinched at the tone of his voice. However, before I had time to finish, he was talking again. "Where did you go this morning, Christine? Did you go to see your young—"

I cut him off with a deep kiss, one that he resisted for only a tiny moment, before allowing himself to be drawn into it. I tucked my body tight against him, kissed him with all the love and passion that I had within me. By the time I had broken it off, his eyes were glazed with desire.

I took a deep breath, and looked him square in the eye. "Erik," I said steadily, "I love you."

His eyebrows slowly furrowed—he was not wearing his mask—and his head cocked a little to the side. "What's going on, Christine?"

Another deep breath preceded my reply:

"I'm pregnant."

I could see his mind working through the information. It was a long moment before his eyes sprung into life—and then immediately darkened. His entire body went stiff in my arms; I felt the swell of suspicious anger rising in his core even before his face contorted into a scowl—and what a gruesome scowl it was, on that face.

"Pregnant," he snarled. "Pregnant?"

I gulped. "Y-yes," I stammered in reply, my tiny hands trying to settle on his shoulders; he brushed them aside, and wheeled away from me to pace across the bedroom floor.

"I did not think..." I heard him murmur, and immediately I knew what path his thoughts were taking. Fear welled in my stomach; I pressed my hands against my abdomen fiercely, in an attempt to chase the emotion away. My pressure there became more gentle, more protective, as it occurred to me just what lay beneath those hands.

He was looking at me again, with undisguised loathing. "Whose child is it, Christine?" he asked, in a voice so full of icy cruelty that I felt as if I would stagger beneath its weight.

"Oh, Erik," I wailed, bracing myself on a bedpost. "Don't be foolish."

Erik's body drew uncomfortably close to mine; I felt as if I were choking on that anger with every breath. "Yes, you're right—the time for being foolish is over with, isn't it?" I shivered; his voice was too quiet, too silky. Too.. inviting. My teeth closed on my lower lip, and I awaited the rest of his words in silence. "I was foolish to assume you could live with..." His voice broke; he valiantly pushed onward. "...without the company of a more appealing specimen. Is he who you see at night, in the darkness, when you are lying in my arms? Do you dream of him, Christine, while you're forced to live with—"

"Erik, stop it!" I cried, turning and flinging myself into his arms. He caught me out of instinct, and I clung to him desperately, with my head buried into his chest. "There is no one, Erik! There was never any man—only you!"

He laughed, once, but there was no humor in that note. "If that is so, my dear, then how do you explain the pregnancy?"

I raised my head to gape at him, sniffling weakly. "Surely you cannot doubt yourself so much?" He looked genuinely confused. My hands curled around his shirt with an iron-like intensity; I would not allow him to toss me aside this time. "My darling," I continued, "surely, _surely _you cannot believe yourself to be so.. impaired?"

He tried to push me away, but I clung with all my might, and in favor of keeping the shirt unharmed, he allowed me to remain close to him. "Did you not believe me to be such?" he asked after a moment. "Did you not look at me with teary eyes, whenever you saw a woman with a swollen belly, whenever there was mention of pregnancy of childbirth on television, whenever—"

"I didn't know, Erik!" I interrupted. "I didn't know what to think. You never said anything... I didn't want to think either way. If I assumed you were, I risked insulting you—if I assumed you were not, I risked disappointing you. How could I dare to hope—how could I dare to doubt?"

Erik still did not look convinced. I released my hold on his shirt, and shifted my hands to clutch the back of his neck. Gently, I pulled his head down, and I was more than a little relieved to find that he did not resist. He only allowed me brief ecstasy, however, before breaking the kiss and looking down into my eyes with an unreadable expression. "You swear to me," he said after a moment, "that this child is mine?"

I nodded, and took a slight step back from him. My hands sought out one of his own, and placed it on my abdomen. It felt as if it belonged there, covering my stomach, covering what lay within. He looked at it—I assume, the stomach, and not the hand—with childlike awe, eyes studying it carefully as if he expected to see it grow. My own hands covered his, though my eyes never left his face.

"It really...? I really...?"

I nodded again, and he raised his eyes to mine. I could see him swinging back into happiness again, could see the corners of those ravaged lips beginning to turn upwards into a smile. And then his expression froze, and his eyes darkened again. My heart plunged to the floor in disappointment; I fought desperately to keep it from my face. "What?" I asked softly. One hand remained on his own, against my stomach; the other rose to press against his cheek. "What is it, my Angel?"

"What will you do," he asked slowly, "if it looks like... like me?"

The thought had not even occurred to me. I found, however, that I did not view the idea with distaste. A small part of me almost liked the idea. I knew that I would outlive Erik; he was at least twice my age, and not in the best of health besides; perhaps, if we had a son that bore the same face, I could cope with that loss a little better.

Though to be honest, I was not sure that I would live much longer than Erik would. A few years, at most, was all I truly gave myself. We were too deeply ingrained into one another's lives, and I was nearly positive that I would not survive without him.

He took my lack of answer as a bad sign, and began to step away from me. My grip tightened on his hand, and I followed his motion, keeping close to him. He looked weary—he looked _old_. I released his hand, in favor of putting both arms around his neck. "I don't know what to tell you, Erik," I said, as I looked up through my lashes into his eyes. "I would love this child more than life itself, regardless of any deformity it may have. I would love it because it was my child. I would love it even more, because it was yours. And if it looks like you—well, it won't make any difference."

Erik lowered his head, and buried his face into the crook of my neck. I pressed my hand against the back of his head and shut my eyes against his tears that I could feel trickling onto my skin. "Thank you," he murmured. I turned my head and pressed a kiss to his temple, as my own tears began to form. Three years of marriage—three years!—and I had barely even begun to grasp the depth of this man's sorrow.

"I swear to you," I whispered against his skin, "our child will not share your fate."

Only sobs followed, backed by an intensity of emotion that I could never have aspired to.


	3. Angry Words and Muffins

I leapt backwards with a squeal, as several baking pans clattered out of the cabinet and onto the floor. In my right hand, I clutched the muffin pan I had sought; my left hand, and its arm, was curled over my face and head, to protect them from the onslaught of cooking implements.

The swinging door to the kitchen flew open with a crash; I leapt away from it, now, with another squeal. Erik stood in the doorway, looking twice his usual height. His eyes were like flames, ready to devour whatever danger had presented itself.

"What's wrong? Why did you scream?" he demanded of me, as he took measured steps into the kitchen. He moved with the grace of a predatory cat; I shivered.

"N-nothing." The muffin pan was lifted first, and then employed to gesture towards the pans on the floor. That was all the explanation I gave—that was all the explanation he needed.

Some of his tenseness slid out of him, along with an exasperated sigh. He scooped and began picking up the pans that had fallen, and patiently packing them away in the cupboard again.

"..You aren't going to wash those?"

The look he gave me over my shoulder made me regret asking. "Why?" he asked after a moment. "They're clean enough."

I stared. "But..." A moment of hesitation, before convincing myself to continue. "They.. have been on the floor, Erik."

He stood very still for a very long time, before pulling out each pan that had fallen to the floor, and carrying them to the sink.

I bit my lip. I hated to bring it up.. but... "Erik..?"

I heard him take a long breath before answering. "Yes, Christine?"

"They.. Never mind."

His head turned away from the sink, to fasten me with that unwavering gaze. His mask made him seem all the more frightening. "What is it, Christine?"

It was never a good sign when he tagged my name onto the end of every sentence. "Nothing... Really."

"Christine."

I sighed, and moved to the oven, to set my muffin pan down. "It's just.. the pans. They.. were on the floor."

"Yes, and I'm washing them now."

"But you put them up first."

"...And?"

I shrugged one shoulder, and continued meekly, "So.. they touched the other pans."

I winced in preparation for his retaliation, but none came. Silent steps carted him across the kitchen floor, back to the cupboard, where he proceeded to remove each and every pan, and carry them to the sink.

I tried to pretend I could not feel the fury emanating from him, and instead proceeded to make my muffins. I had been craving blueberry muffins, _dying _for them, and had nearly gotten up the nerve to ask our cook—a very frightening Italian woman, who I avoided at all costs—when she had to take a sick-leave.

Thus, I had announced—much to the trepidation of the other members of our household—that I would bake the muffins myself.

It was common knowledge under our roof that, in general, Christine _plus _kitchen _equals _disaster. The few times that I had attempted to use anything more complex than a refrigerator, a microwave, or a toaster-oven, I had set off a fire alarm—or at least caused enough smoke for there to be need of one. That was why I avoided our cook at all costs. In the beginning, she had wanted to teach me to cook. I spoke enough Italian to converse with her, however choppily—one could not have ever considered opera as a career, and not speak Italian. However, the more she had tried to teach me, the worse I had become, until she had grown to hate me.

I was convinced that I would do this properly. It was partly pride that drove me to aim for perfection; it was largely my desire to sate this frenzied longing for blueberry muffins.

Henri had driven out to the store earlier today to pick up all of the items I required. It was not that I was an incompetent grocery shopper—I could shop with the best of them—but Henri was convinced I would not be able to select good blueberries. They—Henri and Erik—had tried to convince me to use muffin-mix, but I refused. I wanted to make them myself. I wanted to prove that I could make muffins by myself—even though I had the sneaking suspicion that I could not.

Henri had humored me; Erik had made a teasing, though somewhat degrading, comment about pregnant women.

It had been six and a half months, and my stomach was beginning to reach the awkward stage. My back and legs ached, and I wanted nothing more than to fling the muffin pan across the kitchen at Erik, and go lie down—I did not, however, because I knew that as soon as I laid down, I would be able to think of nothing but my muffins.

Muffins, muffins, muffins. For weeks, nothing but muffins.

Erik had offered to buy me muffins. I did not want bought muffins. I wanted to make muffins.

I glanced at the recipe card that I had found in our cook's cabinets, and began to measure out the ingredients. Erik finished washing the pans, and came to stand near me, watching intently. I was almost tempted to fling flour on him, but did not; somehow, I was afraid he would not see the humor in the act.

When I had finally placed the first muffin pan in the oven and set the timer, I wandered over to a stool near the island and heaved my body up onto it. Erik migrated over to stand near me, and leaned casually against the island, still watching me with that same intense gaze.

One cold, skeletal hand reached out to wipe a bit of flour from my nose. I almost fancied I could see his eyes crinkling with a smile. That imagining was dashed to the floor and shattered into bits, however, when he asked quietly, "Are you really going to keep it?"

I frowned, hoping desperately that he did not speak of what I thought he did. "Keep what, my love?"

The same hand waved towards my stomach, pointer finger trailing down its center. "That."

"My stomach?" I tried valiantly to laugh off the question. "Of course, not, Angel. It will—"

"I do not jest, Christine."

My mouth shut so quickly that my teeth nicked the tip of my tongue; the metallic taste of blood took momentary precedence over my senses. I considered my words very carefully, before quietly asking, "Well, what do you expect me to do?"

He did not answer my question, instead making another ridiculous inquiry in reply. "And you will raise it? You will... love it?"

I knocked his hand away from my stomach, and rose to check on the muffins. "Erik," I said, my voice strained from the effort of bending over the opened oven, "we don't even know that it will.. look like you. There is no point in fretting over it." I stood with a groan, echoed by the hinges of the shutting oven, and turned to face him again. "Besides, love, I already told—"

"Are you so sure that you want a child of mine?" His voice was rising in volume, as his temper soared to new heights. He was becoming impatient with me; I could see it in the way that he seemed clenched, from head to toe, could see it in the way he refused to make eye contact with me and instead focused his gaze on a spot a little below my collarbone.

"Of course I am!" My voice flew up into the farther reaches of tone, as my own impatience surfaced.

"Are you so sure!" He flew to his feet.

"What would you have me do, Erik?" I demanded of him. "Strangle it at birth? Would you prefer some kind of dramatic mercy-killing?" Irrational thoughts flooded my mind, spurned my pulse into unimagined speeds, and wrapped me in a red haze. My hand flew to the knife-rack, and pulled out one of the larger knives. I thrust it into one of his chilled hands, wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and tried my best to press it against my stomach, though my strength was nothing compared to his.

"Cut it out, Erik!" I screeched. "Do it! If you hate the child so much, cut it out of me, right now! Take it out and cut its head off and throw it out into the garden—better yet, throw the muffins into the garden, and we can eat my unborn child—your unborn child—for dinner! Would that be preferable, Erik? Would it?"

I released his hand, and spun away from him, angrily flinging the oven door open to fish out my muffins; it was time to cook the second batch. My entire body was trembling with rage, and I felt somewhat sick. Erik was one huge entity of insufferable silence, at my left shoulder.

Eventually, the knife clattered to the tile floor. I flinched. "Erik..." I turned my head to look for him, but he was gone.

* * *

The car's tires screeched as I took the curve far more quickly than I should have, and for a single moment, I was afraid I would careen off the road and into the woods. I did not, however; the car carried me safely around the arc, and on down the rainy street. It was nearly midnight, and I had barely passed a single car. I wasn't even sure why I was on the road; I did not expect to find him.

Yes, find him—he had disappeared. When I finished my muffins—with only a few burnt, much to my relief—I had gone in search of my husband, hoping to make up for words that I knew deserved no forgiveness. However, a lengthy investigation of the house, made more lengthy by the infuriating handicap that had started this entire argument, had turned up empty. Henri had not seen Erik since before I had begun cooking. I had not seen him nor heard whisper of his presence since he had abandoned me in the kitchen. When I went out to the garage, I discovered one of the cars missing.

Henri had nearly tied me to a chair, to keep me from going out. He wanted to look for himself, wanted me to stay home where I would be safe. My will eventually won out over his, though I am shamed to admit that I used my weight as his employer to sway him. Never before had I made mention of my superiority over him; always, he had been more of a friend and mentor, than an employee.

I swore to myself, then and there, that I would never do it again.

My fingers searched through the inky blackness for the car phone, dialing Erik's without even having to glance at the numbers. I held it only half-heartedly to my ear; it was the hundredth time I'd called, and I did not expect an answer any more than I had one hundred calls earlier.

To my surprise, he answered. That beautiful voice was swathed in angry misery; his pain was nearly the death of me. I had caused that pain. I had said... God in Heaven, why had I said...?

"Erik?"

Only the click of a phone being hung up was my answer.

I threw the car phone down onto the passenger-side floor with disgust. I hated myself for what I had said to him, hated that it had hurt him this much. I also hated having to chase after him to beg forgiveness. My words were not justifiable, but neither were his. He should have been apologizing to me at exactly the same moment that I was apologizing to him; it should not have been such a drastically one-sided effort.

But I had accepted that I would spend the rest of my life doing this, had accepted it the same night I had realized I loved him. I had even been ready to spend my life in the cellars of the opera with him, if he asked me to.

I had never imagined pregnancy would push my patience to such unbearable limits.

I had never imagined he would so stubbornly refuse to believe that I wanted his child as much as I wanted him.

I had never imagined he would ask me, every single night, sometimes with tears, sometimes with a laughter I knew was not genuine, sometimes with anger—with those icy hands clutching and shaking and just barely avoiding pummeling into me.

The car phone rang, pulling me out of a thought process that I never wanted to continue. It could lead only to doubt, and I refused to doubt him. I refused to doubt my love for him. If I doubted, who would stand strong? –Certainly, it would not be Erik to take that role.

I was already groping for the phone, before realizing that it was on the floor. A straight stretch of road sprawled out before me, with no cars in sight. I took a deep breath, and lunged towards the floor, trying my best to keep the steering-wheel still. My fingers encountered the phone with little delay, and I sat up again, happy to see that I had only crossed the center line ever-so-slightly. There were still no cars in sight.

I eased the car back into the correct lane, as I lifted the phone to my ear. "Erik?"

Silence, and then Henri's voice: "Your husband has returned home, Madam." I winced. Was he so angry with me?

"Henri, I wanted to apolo—"

I never got a chance to finish the sentence.

There are a great many stray dogs, near our home. As I had mentioned, we were somewhat removed from the town, and the dogs bred like rabbits out in the countryside. Every night, we would hear them barking in the distance, and there was nearly always one carcass—at least—by the side of the road, where one had been foolish enough to wander into the road.

Each time I saw a carcass, I became teary, and swore to myself never to hit one of them.

It was on this rainy, moonless night that one of them finally stepped out in front of my car, to parade itself onto the asphalt as if worthy of a prize, for daring to tempt me to break my promise.

The phone slipped from my fingers as my foot slammed down onto the breaks. I yanked the steering-wheel; the dog leapt easily away from me, and took off into the night. I vaguely remember being relieved, before the truck collided with my own car.

We would not find out until later that the driver had forgotten to turn on his lights, thus explaining why I had had no idea he was coming.

We would not find out until later that he was asleep, thus explaining why he had made no effort to avoid me.

We would not find out until later that my car rolled far enough into the trees that the police were, at first, not sure where to find it. They had to trek into the woods to discover the black vehicle, on its side and a little on its top, with my body hanging pitifully in the driver's seat.

I don't recall what transpired between the moment of the collision and the moment I woke up in the hospital, except fragments of thought running through my mind.

_I'm going to die._

_You aren't going to die. You have to live._

_I'm going to die._

_Erik's child has to live. You can't die. _

_Live. Live. Live._

_Live for Erik. Live for the child._

_Live, live, live._

_I'm going to die..._

_You never said you were sorry._

_You never said you loved him._

_Live, live, live..._

_I'm going to—_

And then, the sweet ecstasy of unconsciousness swept me away.


	4. Golden Threads

I was swimming through impossible currents, a numb and unfathomable blackness that was immaculate in its impenetrability. I was unconscious; my body was too far away, so far that I almost convinced myself I did not have a body anymore. I was aware enough, however, to know that I was lying down, to know that whenever I tried to move, I could not. I was aware that I could not make myself wake up; I was aware of the tickle in my skull that felt a little like pain.

Everything was quiet. I liked it, at first. I had become unaccustomed to quiet, for there was always something happening in our home. A girlfriend had told me that I would forget what quiet was, once I had had the baby; I had found it odd that I could not appreciate her words, for I had already forgotten.

But soon, the silence became stifling. It was so quiet that it hurt my ears, and I wanted to scream to shatter it, but I could not find my voice. I could not find my throat, or my tongue, or my breath. I was lost, drifting on a sea of torturous nothingness.

Was this what Erik felt, when he "lost himself"? He had tried to explain, once, what happened when he became so angry, or so sad, that he could no longer control his actions. He had failed, however; my mind was too convinced to be focused on sweet, happy things. I refused to allow it to speculate, to wonder, to accept what would only have frightened it.

Erik was its only exception, and I had intended to keep it that way.

But there was no ignoring this, no denying this. I was entrapped in something far worse than Erik's torture chambers; I did not even have the convenience of suicide.

My eyes—or, what I perceived as my eyes, for the human consciousness can only stretch so far before imagination fails it—caught sight of something glinting through the darkness. I drifted towards it by focusing on it, and soon it was dangling directly in front of me. The part of my mind that served as hands reached out and touched the golden thread, and a sensation ran through me, vibrating to my very core, pulling me into it with a power that could belong to only one person in this world.

The perfection of Erik's voice flowed through me, wrapping me in its cocoon and rocking me into contentment. I curled my fingers lazily around the thread, intensifying my contact with it and thus intensifying its ability to sway me. The more I concentrated on the thread, on the voice within the thread, the more I became aware of the pain in my head. It began to throb, wrapping its grip around me as surely as Erik's voice had. I struggled to escape it. I wanted the voice, but I did not want pain. I preferred the darkness and the silence to the pain.

Could I not have the voice and the darkness, without the pain?

Oh, what a question—what a trend, in my life. I am the Queen of Trade-Offs.

The golden thread tightened around my hand, of its own accord. The harder I fought, the tighter it became, until it was steadily tugging me upwards and into the sky, towards the brightness and the noise and the pain. I let out a cry, and heard it echoed above me in the light. Voices, dim and unrecognizable, drifted down into my pit of comfort. The thread on my hand wavered as Erik's attention was distracted; a frustrated cry was heard, and for a moment, that golden tendril turned to blood-red knives.

I screamed as they cut into my metaphorical flesh, and more voices were heard. They could hear me screaming? They could hear me...

_Let me go!_ I wanted to say. _Let me free! I don't want the pain!_

They could not hear me.

Erik's song began to fill my mind again, more passionate, more alluring than before. That golden thread turned to a plush, thick rope, and soon it was curled around my entire being, as opposed to just my hand. I sank into it; it became a bed, lifting steadily upwards. I felt his hands on my arms, on my face, on my neck. I felt him everywhere, just as I felt his voice everywhere. The pain was nearly unnoticeable, with him so fully taking command of my attention.

Suddenly, I was slammed back into my own body, and my eyes flew open. I cried out in pain; my voice was just a hoarse whisper. The pain in my skull bloomed, overriding every sense that I had. My hands clenched; one found crisp hospital sheets; the other found glacial appendages.

Erik!

I turned my head to see him, though that did not hold favor with my pain. The foolish endeavor was rewarded with even more searing pain. The darkness beckoned again, and I lunged towards it. I had nearly escaped my body again, when that voice called me back. I knew what waited for me at the end of that road, but still I took it. That is the power of Erik's voice. He could have called me to walk into a burning building, had he wanted to.

My voice cracked as I struggled to speak his name. He leaned forwards eagerly, the mask glinting in the fluorescent hospital lights. He did not speak, for fear of drowning out my own words.

"Erik," I croaked.

Where were the other voices? I could see no one else in the room, but I firmly recalled hearing others. Where had they gone? It did not matter. I dragged my mind back to the matter at hand. I did not remember anything of the accident at the time, but the convictions of my moments before unconsciousness were branded into my mind. I was convinced I was going to die, but I was also convinced I was going to say what needed to be said before I did so.

"I.. love you, Erik." It was so hard, my tongue so clumsy. I could barely force the words out, and I had the vague sense that they were not nearly as intelligible as I believed they were. From the look in Erik's eyes, however, he understood perfectly well.

"And," I panted, "and..."

His hand tightened on mine, while the other rose to brush a damp coil of hair away from my face. He was buying me time, allowing me to make the words work and still feel as if we were communicating. Oh, how I loved that man...

"I am.. s-sorry..."

Erik nodded, and leaned forward. The mask was removed ever so slightly, just enough to allow him to press a gentle, loving kiss to my lips. He had just barely pushed it back into place, when two nurses burst into the room, Henri still valiantly attempting to keep them out. "We have got to see her!" one cried angrily to him. He argued, but it was over; the other was already bustling over to stand by my bed. Erik leapt up and retreated to the far corner of the room, watching darkly.

"Oh!" cried the one near my bed. "She's awake! Go and fetch Doctor Mangum."

The one enwrapped in conflict with Henri nodded, and pushed her way past him. He turned to look to Erik, who only shook his head once; with that matter finished, Henri fell to standing perfectly still, looking at the nurse by my bed with just as intimidating an expression as Erik's.

The nurse began to move around me, turning knobs and resituating needles and IV bags, chattering all the while about what was wrong with me. Head trauma, she explained. Severe concussion, slightly fractured skull, but nothing worth doing anything about.

Relief—so immense I thought I would faint—flooded through me, as she fixed me with a cheerful look and announced that the baby was, for all appearances, safe and sound.

Henri told me later that they had warned him the baby might be deformed, when it was born, that it might have some developmental problems or some other strange affliction. They had also explained it was best that I not know, that it be kept secret from me unless the baby were actually born in such a way. Then, and only then, they said, should I have it explained to me.

"No reason to invite unnecessary stress," they had told him.

He never bothered telling them that he wasn't the father.

The doctor came in, stride breaking for just a moment as both of my men's eyes turned to fasten him with suspicious glares. My heart swelled with adoration for them, and suddenly I had no doubt that I would live. Henri and Erik would have allowed no less.

Doctor Mangum walked to my side, peering at the chart in his hand for a moment before looking up at me over slim, fashionable spectacles. He was a younger doctor—younger than Henri, even—and handsome. Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect bone structure. I realized with dismay who he reminded me of, at almost the same moment that I felt Erik's anger surge to dangerous levels. Henri felt it, as well; his head snapped over to look at Erik with wide-eyed concern.

_Raoul..._

"How are we feeling?" God, their voices were even similar, though the content was much different. Raoul would have fawned over me; Mangum... Well, the usual doctor's question.

Did he need an answer, in truth? I had a fractured skull. I had just come out of a coma. How did he think I felt? I managed to shrug one shoulder. "I've been better."

He laughed humorlessly, and returned to looking at the chart. "You're a lucky woman, Miss Daaé."

I floundered. I was unsure of how to correct him; I did not even remember the last name Erik had employed, for the wedding contracts. I allowed him to continue on the "miss" track, for convenience's sake.

I noticed with dismay that he did not wear a wedding band. Of course, it mattered not to me; merely, it would allow Erik's mind one more measure of access to jealousy.

Mangum set the chart down, and began the usual, routine check-up process. It was one I would grow familiar with, during my stay at the hospital; he came in to perform it twice a day, every day. Erik hated it; he had to touch every appendage, and his hands were constantly drifting over my torso. He never once strayed from the strictly-professional path, but Erik was convinced that there was more to it.

I was nearing the later half of my seventh month, by the time they allowed me to leave the hospital. Henri brought me one blueberry muffin every day of my visit.

They had wanted me to stay longer, but I had asked Erik to take me home, and nothing was going to stop him from fulfilling my wishes. As I was helped from the wheelchair by Erik, Henri opening the door to the backseat of a car—a new car, I noticed with slight disapproval—the wind swept through the parking lot with tremendous force, blowing my hair back and tickling my skin with an affection that surprised me. I shut my eyes, feeling it run its fingers through my hair and across my neck.

The baby stirred in my stomach, and with a smile of contentment and a hand resting on the hideous bulge, I lowered myself carefully into the backseat.

* * *

"If it's a girl?" 

"Sonora," I said without pause. Erik looked surprised at my certainty, but did not object to the name.

"Sonora what?" he prompted, when I failed to produce a middle name.

"I'm not sure yet," I admitted. "I am quite fond of 'Sonora', though, if you don't mind it?"

He shook his head, and penned the name carefully on the piece of paper in front of him.

"Angelique," I said suddenly. He looked even more surprised this time, and almost inclined to argue. I smiled gently, and placed my hand on his forearm. "I think it would be perfect," I said, and he merely shrugged and wrote that down beside Sonora.

"Sonora Angelique Daaé," he murmured, and then smiled. "You are right; it is perfect."

I had refused to allow the doctors to tell me whether my child was male or female. I had explained that I did not want to know until they set it in my arms. Erik had been afraid for them to look at the child at all, afraid they would see a deformity of the face, if there was one. He was afraid to even allow the child to be born in the hospital, and I believe that if he had not feared so much for my safety, he would have refused it. He had the impression that, were the child deformed, the hospital would try to do something to it.

"And if it's a boy?" he asked after a moment of staring at the name.

"I've not a clue, my love," I replied, after thinking for quite a while.

He nodded, and wrote two question marks beneath Sonora's name, and then finished it off with Daaé, perfectly aligned with Sonora's Daaé.

"I hope it is a girl," he said, after a moment of staring at the paper. "The boy would never hear the end of teasing, at bearing such a silly name."

I grinned, and leaned forwards to plant a kiss on one gaunt cheek. I considered leaning back to resettle myself into my chair, but instead lingered, to nestle my face down against the crook of his neck. His skin warmed a little beneath contact of my own, and I smiled as I kissed the skin beneath my lips. His head turned, adjusted so that his lips could reach the side of my face, and those twisted lips began bathing in kisses any skin they could reach.

A croon of desire slipped between my lips, and I raised my head to present my lips to his own. The invitation was taken without hesitation.

Who knows what kind of late-pregnancy rules we would have broken, had Henri not interrupted with a knock on the study door. Erik jerked away from me, groping for his mask and just barely managing to fasten it into place before Henri had opened the door. I sat back in my chair with a groan, weakly and half-heartedly attempting to pat my curls into place.

"There's a man to see you, sir," Henri said. "Claims he is a friend of the family, who's heard about Madame Daaé's... condition."

I hated that word. It made it sound like a sickness, like an affliction. My hands cradled my stomach lovingly, as my eyebrows knitted in disdain, in Henri's direction.

The man either had perfected the art of feigning naïveté, or was truly more dense than I could have imagined.

"Who is he?" Erik asked suspiciously, as he rose from his chair. "You know as well as I that we haven't many friends."

Meaning, _he _did not have many friends. I had several women that I kept company with, and was slightly offended that he would group me into his own hermit's existence. I was shocked at my irritability, and tried desperately to force it into the background.

"He won't say, sir, but he insists upon seeing you at once."

Erik nodded, and moved from behind the desk. "Tell him I shall be there in a moment." Henri bowed out, and my husband turned to face me. Carefully, I heaved myself to my feet; he grabbed hold of my hands, appearing for all the world as if he were merely holding them, though both of us knew he was steadying me. Still, I was thankful for the games he played to keep my pride from being wounded.

"Will you be long?" I asked, with a bit of a pout, as I peeled the mask gently from his face, and placed myself as close to him as my belly would allow.

"I will—" He kissed me. "—try to—" Another kiss. "—hurry things along—" And another. "—for your sake—" And another. "—my angel."

I grinned, and raised a hand to pat against his cheek. "See that you do," I replied with mock severity. He only responded with a final kiss, before stealing his mask away from me, and taking his leave.

I trundled down the hall and up the stairs—for truly, only "trundle" can describe the way a pregnant woman is forced to move—until arriving in our bedroom. Gratefully, I sank onto the mattress, rolling onto my side to face the spot where Erik should have been lying. With a quiet smile, I buried my face into his pillow, and fell asleep with my nose filled with his scent.

I had many lovely dreams, that afternoon.


	5. Bitter Jealousy

_A/N  
This is a little of the darker side of Christine. You'll note that my Christine is rather unique--well, unique, in that she is very unlike LeRoux's, Lloyd Webber's, or Kay's. She has a bit of a twist to her soul, a little like Erik's. _

_I don't know whether you like that idea or not, but somehow, that's how she's coming out, so that's how I'll let her come out._

_I'm very big on allowing my characters to do what they want, and she definitely wants to do things this way. _

* * *

Erik did not tell me who our visitor was. He spoke with the man for many hours, and was in a foul mood upon returning to me. He found me asleep, of course, and did not even consider awaking me. I imagine this was due more to his fear of my anger at being disturbed, than any true selfless sacrifice. His presence in the bed tugged me out of my dreaming, however, and I opened my eyes to find him sitting beside me, staring down in deathly stillness.

I reached up to take his mask off—it still was somewhat disturbing, to be placed under such intense study by such a lifeless object—but his head moved slightly to one side to escape my fingers' grasp. With a slight frown, my hand fell back to the bed, to aid in pushing me up into a sitting position. I leaned back against the pillows and the headboard, and watched him for a while in silence, before gently inquiring after his temper.

He responded with a head-shake, and edged closer to me. His hands migrated to place themselves on the small of my back, and he used that vantage-point to coax me into sitting forwards. I obeyed those hands as fully as any instrument would; those hands held as authoritative a position over me as did his voice. My arms raised to loop around his neck, and I schooled my features into an expression of tender curiosity.

It was a lengthy bout of silent staring that followed, before finally he gave me a curt nod. Words were not required to communicate that message; with sure fingers, I removed the mask, and tossed it onto the bed. I watched his eyes carefully as I did so, and was shocked to see what I had never seen before: He still expected rejection. His eyes shut in a solitary moment of pained acceptance, before opening and registering a glimmer of shock upon finding me smiling softly. I tried to keep my concern from showing as my hands moved to rest on the corners of his jaw, just below his ears. "My angel..."

Those eyes shut again, this time accompanied by a groan of longing. His forehead pressed against mine, before he opened his eyes again and fastened their gaze onto mine. "I need you," he whispered, hands shifting from my back to my hips, and stroking, caressing, in ways that were impossible to ignore. I whimpered, as his face retreated from mine, moving instead to allow his lips to trace their way down my neck. "Please," he breathed against my skin. "I must have you..."

This was quite definitely not fair. He knew I could not turn down that voice, especially when he begged...

He saved me the pain, by retreating to such a distance as to be off the bed. He was already walking across the room, to the door that led not into the hall, but into the adjacent study. I pushed myself off of the bed to follow him. He went into his study, crossed it without hesitation, and lifted his violin. The bow was set to the strings, and with only a moment's pause, he launched into a transcription of Chopin's Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor. I sagged into an armchair, wishing I could curl my legs to my chest as I so wished to do.

The purr of bow on string wrapped around me, and my eyes shut of their own design. I could not help but rock to that music, to allow my head to sway with the motion that the notes took. Erik swayed, as well; with every note he moved, back and forth, like the total embodiment of the music that drifted from his lonely corner.

By the end of that song, I was weeping uncontrollably. I did not even hear him set the instrument aside, did not see him come to my side, was barely even cognizant of being carried back into our bedroom. He laid me down, and kissed away my tears. I tried to draw him down onto the bed beside me; he merely reached over me to lift his mask, and then straightened.

"I cannot sleep with you, until after the child is born." That voice.. so cold, so dispassionate. I tried to ask if I had done something wrong, but he pressed a pair of fingers to my lips. "Sleep..."

And I could not find it in me to disobey.

* * *

My hands, once tiny and now swollen like a fat woman's—no, not like, they _were _a fat woman's hands. I was a _fat woman_. 

Wait, where was my point?

My hands. My hands were resting lightly on the white railing that enclosed our back porch, my fat fingers rubbing idly into the thin layer of pollen that rested on its surface. I have no idea why that mischievous little finger was rubbing the pollen—I certainly was not telling it to. When I discovered its sneaky act, I immediately put an end to it, but the damage was already done. My fingertip—my fat fingertip—my huge, obnoxious, clumsy, _fat _fingertip—was stained a sickly yellow color.

"You fat beast, you deserve it," I growled—not to myself, but to the fingertip.

I had found a new word to describe my movement, and I rather liked it better than trundle. Trundle sounded cute. Trundle sounded like something an overweight penguin would do. I was not an overweight penguin. I did not have the adorable factor that an overweight penguin would have.

I waddled. I did not trundle, I waddled, like an overweight _duck_. Like a _walrus_. Like a big, fat, disgusting creature on legs that were not at all meant to support this stupid sack of life on my abdomen.

I have heard that women often become depressed shortly after having their child; the sudden separation, I'm told, upsets them. I could not imagine ever feeling that way. I could not imagine a moment when I would not be thankful that I had lost contact with this clumsy burden.

I believe Erik had similar sentiments. Not only did he suffer from the same frustration that any man would, when denied access to his rights as a husband, but also my own temperament was beginning to wear on his nerves. I had no patience for anything these days. Any word, no matter how much good will was intended, could be twisted into an insult or a complaint, and as soon as he even breathed a complaint—or, what was perceived as a complaint—I could not hold myself back from flaunting all the things that were wrong with _me_. How could he complain, when he was free to do whatever he wished, and I was shackled by this blob that had taken up residence in my stomach?

Luckily, Henri was able to talk to him often enough that Erik was confident in my desire to have his child, and no longer plagued me with incessant accusations of secret lovers and despised mutant-children.

This was not luck for me, mind you, but luck for him.

The baby was due any day now. I could hardly wait. I missed sleeping with my husband. It had been nearly two months since his announcement that he could no longer sleep in our bed—and in addition, he had decided he could barely stand to see me, aside from taking meals with me. I did not want to go out, and he did not want to sit alone in my presence for more than a few moments, if he could not touch me, and he could not touch me without wanting to have me, and he could not have me.

Therefore, he could not sit with me.

Not only that, but he had been strangely busy, since the anonymous man's visit to our home. He barely had a spare moment. I had confirmation from Henri that I was not merely being avoided. Erik stayed up late nights, pouring over documents and bills, and making long calls to lawyers and accountants. It concerned me that he was doing this to himself. Henri tried to assure me that he was merely nervous about the baby, and wanted to distract himself, but... somehow, that excuse did not quite convince me.

What worried me far more than the reports of late nights, was the heart-rending music I could hear coming from his study near the obscene hours of the morning. At first, he had played pieces on his violin. Then, he had progressed to pieces on the piano. Not long after that, he had begun playing music I had never heard before, music of an intensity that I had only encountered once: in the opera's cellars. He was composing. Why was he composing? What had driven him to make this music that ripped open souls and left them dangling helplessly in the air?

I had thought he was happy.

Could I not make him happy?

My hands clenched on the pollen-ridden railing, my eyes staring, unseeing, into the distance. Lush green lawn, bordered by immaculately-cared-for gardens, stretched for several acres, before giving way to fields. I could not see the fields, but I knew they were there; Erik and I had ridden them together often enough.

Before I was _fat_, that is.

I did not much like the idea of a child, though I adored the idea of Erik's child. Having something to fully display the unity between he and I was not at all to my dislike. I wanted to have a family, to be a member of a delightful company of love and adoration. Erik, the child, and I. It was the ultimate perfection. And yet, having a tiny monster to run around and shatter the peace between he and I, to tug my hair and my skirts and to require constant attention when all I wanted was to sink into bed in my husband's arms...

_They say your marriage is never the same after a child._

I did not want anything to be different.

I was shocked to discover that I was jealous of there being a thing to draw Erik's attention away from mine. He would love this child more than life itself.

...More than me?

I shivered, and raised my pollen-coated hands to rub my upper arms. I found myself hoping it was not a daughter that lay curled within my abdomen. For Erik to love a son more than me would be devastating, yes, but for him to love a daughter...

Another woman.

A female to challenge my place in his life—in his thoughts—in his heart...

My hands tightened on my arms with silent rage. Would he play his music for her? Would she fall asleep in bed to the sound of his violin? His piano? His _voice_? That voice was mine, and mine alone. It had been mine since first it sang to me in my dressing-room, and I had been fiercely protective of that possession from that self-same moment. I did not want to share him with anyone. Even Henri, at times, had seemed like a rival, and Henri was only a friend. Erik had never played for Henri, never sung for Henri. I could not even imagine what kind of world it would be, if I were forced to share Erik with another. I wanted to share a life with him, have a family with him.. but I did not want to share him with a family.

Such a thing was not even possible, and I knew it, at the same time that I knew I would never fully accept it.

And even now, I had to marvel over the power that this man had over me. I would never have dreamed of being jealous of anyone; I was a sweet, demure little angel, always willing to allow others to walk on top of me, for the sake of avoiding a conflict—and Erik had made me into a woman who had turned murderous thoughts of envy on a child that had not even been born yet.

A sudden thought struck me with dreadful honesty. If I was jealous of the child, would I be able to love it? If I viewed it as a roadblock to Erik's love, how would I be able to care for it?

Would it, in the end, share the same relationship with its mother that Erik had? Would I grow to hate it, as Madeleine had hated her son?

I recall thinking that no spring day is a good spring day, and turning away from the sight with contempt. As if in rebuke of my irritability, the baby stirred with shocking force. I clutched my stomach... and that was when my water broke.

I will not, of course, regale you with all of the disgusting details of my labor. That is what home videos of the birthing room are for—and I will happily assure you that none exist of my labor. My husband was, lucky for me, not a fool of a man. He did not care to see that nerve-wracking occurrence more than once, no more than I desired to experience it more than once.

Needless to say, I only ever had one child.


	6. Sonora Angelique Makes Her Debut

Any fear I had of hating the child was banished as soon as they laid it in my arms. The nurses all looked horrified; the doctor, pseudo-Raoul, was staring at me with a pained expression, as if he expected me to break into tears at any moment—or, worse, as if he feared the blissful look on my face was due solely to a mother's blindness; Erik was crouched in the corner, eyes shut, refusing to look at the hospital bed. He must have known what sight awaited him; the room was silent, aside from the whirring and beeping of the hospital's expensive instruments. They were all trying to look at my child, without actually looking—they were all trying to memorize every detail, for later gossip, without actually staring, without actually remembering what they viewed as a horror.

I cradled it in my arms, not even knowing whether it was son or daughter that I looked down on. No one had remembered to tell me. I did not care. My head lowered slowly, and pressed kisses to that chubby face.

Its left half was perfect; it looked exactly like me.

Its right half was perfect, as well; it looked exactly like Erik.

I felt my husband's form drawing near, saw his skeletal hands position themselves on the railing of the bed, as he peered down at the silent bundle in my arms. The air in the room was difficult to breathe, but I must have been the only one who noticed—I must have been the only one breathing.

Erik reached forward with one cautious hand, and the baby—my brave, beautiful child—reached up without hesitation and curled its tiny hand around its father's finger. Its mouth fell open, and a single note tumbled out, wooing my ears just as easily as its fathers did. There was something different about that note, however, and my mind picked it out almost instantly.

It was a woman's note.

I had a daughter.

* * *

You, of course, do not care to hear about Sonora Angelique's first step, first laugh, first birthday, first Christmas. I doubt you even care to know this, though I will share it because it has far more meaning than any of those other things.

Her first word—Sonora's first word—my daughter's first word—Erik's child's first word—

—was "angel".

It did not sound quite like "angel", of course; it sounded like no word known to any language I have studied. But upon closer inspection—and upon countless efforts to repeat it—we discerned that it was, indeed, "angel" that was tumbling from those lovely lips.

It became clear early on that she would have blonde hair. Erik frowned over this for several hours, before I, as gently as possible, pointed out that he could surely not question the parentage, considering Sonora's appearance.

Grudgingly, my husband agreed.

Sonora grew up very quickly. She walked early, talked early, read early. She was playing Erik's piano by age three, as naturally as he must have at her age. To his disappointment, she showed no inclination to draw, and found anything involving architecture to be as dry as the saltine crackers she grew to be so fond of. She did, however, show an amazing talent with penmanship; once taught her letters, she began to develop an elegance and a flourish that neither of her parents had ever possessed.

And, of course, like any sensible girl, she loved horses. Erik taught her to ride; the child practically grew up on a horse's back.

There was much debate, early on, about how to handle her education. Erik wanted a private tutor; I feared shutting my daughter away from the world completely. In our home, our grand and luxurious home, there was little need for her to ever leave—ever. I did not want my child to develop the same reclusive habits my husband had. I feared she would never be happy, in such circumstances, but the only time I ever was foolish enough to say as much, Erik snapped at me: "And do you think the world would make her happy, Christine? Look at her!"

If I had not known better, I would have thought he hated his child.

I did know better.

They were inseparable, on most days; always, they were playing music together or for one another; always, they were riding together; always, they were talking to one another about secrets I could never hope to possess. I was the mother. I was not privileged to have the role of secret-keeper. I was the disciplinarian, the strict one. The only time I received a secret was when it involved "feminine concerns", and even then, I think she would have been happier to talk to Erik, had she thought he'd talk back.

I am not sure if it was just the hormones of late pregnancy that had driven me to such vicious thoughts of jealousy and hatred. Certainly, it was not any true intent to be so, and I was not terribly surprised to find that I was no more jealous of Sonora than I was of Erik. Naturally, I felt a little disappointed that the kinship in my family was so uneven, but at the same time, I understood the reasons behind it. They grasped a genius I would never have.

I was meant to love geniuses, not to be one.

Erik did return to our bed, as he had promised he would. In fact, he returned with a great amount of renewed vigor, and I was more than happy to accept him back into my arms. Sonora kept us from returning to our passion of old, but certainly did not keep us from returning to passion. Nothing ever fully extinguished the passion between he and I.

But you must stop me from rambling—I have already gone on for so long, and not even finished telling you of Sonora's education!

We made a compromise. She would be privately tutored through to third grade, until she was old enough to understand herself and her father, and to face the world. I told you she grew up quickly; it was not a lie. By third grade, she was stronger in spirit than I ever had been, or ever would be.

I was always a child; Sonora never was.

I do not know what happened, when first she was given a mask. It was the week before she was due to make her debut in fourth grade, and Erik had deemed it appropriate that he be the one to speak with her. There were no tears, I am certain of that much. I know, because I shamelessly stood outside of her door and listened. I could not understand his words, but his tone was gentle; she asked a few questions, and he answered them with little hesitation. When he came back into the hallway, he looked tired, and I could just see Sonora tying the black sash of the white leather mask, as he shut the door.

She looked beautiful, when she looked up at me, on her first day. We arrived at the same time as every other student; I had asked if she wanted to arrive early or late, but she had calmly replied that she wanted to be like everybody else.

Her choice of words had pained me, but I put on a happy face for her sake. The black ribbon of her mask stood out against her golden hair, but I did not question Erik's choices; he had worn the same for as long as I had known him, and certainly I had no place to interfere. The sapphire-blue eye that peered up at me from her porcelain-skinned half was serene and confident; the yellow one that looked up from amidst the white leather was defiant, almost angry. I bent and kissed her blonde curls—just as unruly as my own—and smiled down at her. "My cherub," I purred, "I have every confidence that you will be fine."

She nodded, and turned to look into the classroom, where parents and children alike were milling about, talking to one another, talking to the teacher. I had met the woman who was to be her teacher already, had sat down with her and discussed, at length, Sonora's.. eccentricities. It was unfortunate that Sonora was intelligent; we knew she'd always be a bit bored with things. We did not dare, however, to push her one grade ahead; if the other children had age over her, we feared what would come of it.

"Men are cruel," Erik had said once, on the subject, "but none as cruel as children."

I agreed whole-heartedly.

"Do you want me to stay for a while?" I asked carefully.

Sonora stood for a long moment, considering her answer. "Until the other parents start leaving," she said finally. Her hand raised up to tighten on mine—her right one, with its fingers so long and thin, compared to her still-childish left one. I clutched that gloved hand—it was not icy, like her sire's, but still cooler than her left hand—and walked into the room beside her with as pleasant a look on my face as I could muster.

The parents all greeted me kindly, and all were flattered by Sonora's smooth tongue and enrapturing voice. I could not help but be proud of her; she acted with every social grace, with every propriety that a woman of her status should have had. I was beaming by the time I left that classroom, and received several compliments in the hallway. Not a single parent asked after the mask, though I heard several of them instructing their children on how to act around Sonora.

I went home and gave my optimistic report to Erik, who only smiled grimly and coaxed me into his lap. He was sitting at his piano in the study, composing; I knew he was, despite the fact that he shoved his papers away as soon as I entered, and replaced them with sheet music for Liszt. I was kind enough to ignore it.

As his arms twined around my waist and tucked my now-just-as-slender-as-before body against his torso, I could not help but feel dark despair curling its fingers around my heart. Erik's pessimism was catching; all he had to do was give me that one condescending look, and already I was convinced that my daughter would come home bawling.

I only sat with him for an hour, listening to him play. He had work to do, and I could not bear to sit still any longer, regardless. I spent two hours in our little home gym, working off my frustration, and then migrated to the stables. Riding was lonely, without Erik, but roaming fields and dappled woods were much more favorable than moping about that dark house.

I kept track of the time amazingly well, and made it back to the house in time to shower before going to pick up Sonora. Once she had fallen into a comfortable routine, Henri had suggested we leave the fetching and carrying to him. I was still considering that plan; after all, I didn't have anything better to do, anyway, and I liked seeing my daughter fresh off the campus. It gave me a better idea of her day's quality.

When she climbed into the car, and settled into the pale leather seat, I knew already that it had not been a good day. My lungs compressed mercilessly as Erik's words traced through my mind. She had no injuries; her mask was none the worse for wear; violence was immediately cast aside as an option. I kept turning to look at her as we drove, with a slight frown. Finally, when she had not spoken to me for nearly twenty minutes, I took the plunge.

"Sonora? Is everything alright?"

With a look that was far too familiar, and a tone far too off-hand to be genuine, she replied, "I'd rather discuss it with Father."

Cue the first real twinge of jealousy.

"Well, I'm sure I could help with something." I was trying desperately to keep my tone playful. "Your old mother isn't totally useless, I'll have you know."

"Oh, Mother," she groaned, in so degrading a tone that I nearly grew teary. Admittedly, not the most adult response to such a thing—and that infuriated me even more. I was being treated like a child by my own daughter, and was even responding to the situation as would a child.

"Don't 'Oh Mother' me, young lady," I responded with as teasing a voice as I could muster. "It's true. I've even helped your father, once or twice."

She looked at me skeptically. "Helped him do what?" she asked after a moment. "Pick out drapes?" A pause, and she laughed condescendingly. "You don't even have good color taste. How on earth could you have helped Father to do anything?"

_Erik, _I thought, as my hands tightened on the wheel, _you need to have a long talk with your daughter. _

* * *

"Erik," I growled, "you need to have a _long _talk with your daughter."

He did not bother to glance up from the statement that he had received from our accountant this morning. He was frowning a bit; obviously, it was not an exceedingly good bit of news. "Why?" he asked distractedly. "Did the world not greet her as kindly as you expected?"

I scowled. "I'm not looking for a pissing match right now, Erik."

That brought his head up.

"Your daughter has somehow managed to pick up the belief that I am good for utterly nothing—that I cannot even pick out drapes, much less aid my husband in something! She thinks I'm some useless ninny! Now _where _could she have gotten _that _idea from!"

He shrugged, and looked back down at the statement, but he was obviously nervous. "Christine, rest assured I had nothing to do with it. You know my opinion of you is—"

"I don't care!" I snapped. "Wherever she got it from, she got it, and she needs to be set straight! I am not some kind of wall ornament, Erik!"

He promised to talk to her, and I believed him.

We never mentioned the subject to each other again.

But every night that I had an argument with her, he found it in him to distract me, with his voice, with his hands, with his body, with anything and everything in his power.

I don't think he ever really spoke to her, because I don't think he was of a much different opinion. Explaining my purpose in the home would have required explaining his history to her. My only purpose was to love and care for him. My only purpose was to keep him sane.

I knew he loved me. I knew I loved him. What else mattered?

_ ...Right?_


	7. Visions of the Past

I tapped my knuckles against the study door before opening it. Finding Erik seated placidly behind his desk, reading the theatre reviews, I entered the room. A few quiet steps brought me to his side, where I perched at his shoulder, peering semi-curiously over his shoulder.

He "tsk"-ed, and made a degrading comment about the state of the opera "these days".

"We should go," I said, after a moment. "We have not been since Sonora was young, and with that box rented out every season, I don't see why we let it go to waste like we do."

"And leave Henri to look after Sonora? No..."

I hesitated. "We.. could always bring her along. She is old enough, now, and I know she would like to attend..."

His head tipped back, eyes peering at me from behind the mask. "Do you really think that's wise?"

"I don't see why not."

The head straightened, and the paper was readjusted. Another "tsk" noise was made, before he folded the paper and handed it to me. "You two go," he said as he thrust it towards me. "I have no fascination in indulging in the rubbish they are calling opera these days."

* * *

With Sonora's hand clasped tightly in my own, we exited the box. I could feel her squirming with excitement, already eager to discuss the night's opera with me. It was the first time she had seen one, and I knew she was nearly dying to talk to me. The crowds did not permit it, however; Sonora had, as always, insisted that we do things just like everyone else, and thus had we been forced to fight our way through the masses of people. 

I had forgotten how convenient attending with Erik could be.

"Christine! Christine, wait!"

A smile was forced onto my lips as I turned my head to look for whatever old acquaintance was calling out to me. I could see a hand, and a piece of a face, as a man dragged his wife and child through the crowds to see me. I glanced down at Sonora, who had already turned her back to them, and was pressing her face against my hip. With one comforting hand resting on her curls, I raised my head again...

...and nearly fainted.

Standing before me was the one face, above all faces, that I had expected never to see again, had _hoped _never to see again. For one foolish moment, I hoped it was my doctor.

The golden-haired man stood before me, nearly panting with exertion, but smiling brightly nonetheless. Beside him stood a slender—despite her slightly-bulging stomach, which her hand rested so elegantly upon—red-haired woman, with flashing green eyes, and perfect white teeth. Her face bore the signs of fine breeding; obviously, Raoul had found a woman more worthy of his attentions—and at her side stood the perfect image of Raoul, looking around with obvious boredom.

"Christine, it is so lovely to see you!" he cried, reaching forward to snatch up my hands with glee. He was interrupted, however, by catching sight of Sonora. His face paled a little, as his eyes immediately flickered to my left hand. When those eyes raised again, they were full of dread certainty.

Sonora turned her head, and sucked in a breath. "The golden thief!" she cried immediately. I winced; obviously, Erik had taught her that. One hand patted her curls, as I tried to keep my smile faultlessly in place.

At the sound of her voice, Raoul's son had turned to look at us. Already, I could see his face clouding over with the immediate judgment of a child. "Mother," he said loudly, "why is that girl wearing a mask?"

His mother cast me an apologetic look, as she turned to hush the child. I could hear her as she spoke. "Benedict, we do not ask such things! I will tell you later..." Although, I could see her face turning questioningly to Raoul's. He only had eyes for me and my daughter, however.

"So," he said after an awkward pause. "You married him, after all?"

I nodded, as Sonora tightened her grip on my hand. Her temper, proving to be just as volatile as her father's, was rising steadily—I could tell, because I felt as if the bones in my hand were going to break.

"What is her name?" asked Raoul's wife, with a politely interested expression.

I smiled at her thankfully for supplying conversation. "Sonora Angelique."

She made a pleasant face at the lovely name, and moved to comment on it, as Raoul's face blanched.

"Angelique?" he asked, rudely talking over his wife. "Angelic."

I nodded, eyes falling down to my daughter.

"Of angels."

Another nod. Why was he dragging this out?

"...Your Angel."

His wife looked terribly confused; I glanced up at her, and tried to smile again. She did not return it. "What is your name?" I asked after a moment. "As you must have gathered, I am Christine."

I held my hand out, and she took it lightly. "Mari," she said after a moment.

"Pleased to meet you, Madame," I said, with as pleasant a smile as I could muster.

Benedict tugged on her arm, distracting her attention from a reply. "Mama, take me outside. I am bored."

Mari fussed with him about interrupting her, but moved to obey his whim. I watched with a slight frown, as he suddenly planted his feet. "I want that girl to come," he said, pointing at Sonora. My daughter tensed, and clung more tightly to me.

"Don't let me go!" she whispered urgently, and I believe that even if I had been inclined to allow her out of my sight, I would not have—when she grew too upset, that voice could bend me to its will with barely any effort at all.

Had Madeleine suffered this affliction with her own son?

Mari ignored the child, propelling him through the crowds without a backward glance.

"Christine..." Raoul stepped closer to me, and took one of my hands in his own. "Christine, what has happened to you?"

I tried to laugh. "Whatever do you mean, Raoul?"

In answer, he began pulling me through the crowd, guiding me over to a less-used corridor, where mirrors lined the walls. He shoved me up to one, and pointed at my reflection there.

I was lucky for his hand on my back, and for Sonora's rock-wall presence at my other side, for without the two of them, I believe I would have swooned with shock. My eyes had sunken into my skull, my cheeks were gaunt... Large dark smears, looking more like bruises, had swept across the skin beneath my eyes in a hideous display of color. One hand rose to touch against my face, as my lips parted in disbelief.

We did not have mirrors, in our home; the only one I had access to, was the one in my compact. I had never imagined... My skin was sallow; no longer was it of porcelain perfection, but the sickly color that a bedridden old woman would have. My dress hung off of me in a manner that looked somewhat disgusting. I had thought it was good luck; I had thought I had lost a little extra weight. However, I had, apparently, lost _necessary _weight. I looked like an anorexic—and it really was not much of a surprise. I did not, often, eat. The black smudges beneath my eyes were startling, however; I slept nearly all day long, these days. "I..." My fingers pressed flat against my cheek. "Oh my god..."

"Exactly," said Raoul triumphantly. "Do not worry, Christine—I shall get you free of that man."

I turned to look at him numbly, even as Sonora cried out in shock.

"You would take us away from Papa!"

"Your papa is a bad man," Raoul said with a frown, as he looked down at Sonora. "See what he does to your mama? She used to be a beautiful woman—now she looks as if she is near death."

Sonora shook her head, curls flying. "No! Papa does not hurt—" and she froze, and it was enough. Raoul knew. Sonora knew he knew, and she obviously hated him for it. Thus, in her childlike naïveté, did she move to correct her blunder: "Papa does not _mean_ to hurt Mother..."

I shut my eyes against the expression on Raoul's face, against the image staring back at me from behind the mirror. I did not know that woman who stood there, trembling like a cancer patient. I did not know her—I was not her—I would not allow myself to be her! I was still young, I was still beautiful... _Erik and I were still happy..._

If I told myself that enough times, perhaps it would be true.

"Come, Sonora," I said suddenly. With a sharp tug on her arm, I started off in the direction of the door. The crowd had thinned; it was much easier to push my way to the exit. I could hear Raoul calling my name, but thought he would leave me alone if I ignored him.

I realized I was wrong—and was clued in by the abrupt disappearance of Sonora's hand in mine. I spun, teeth clenched, to find him holding onto her arm. "You are going to take this child back to—"

"Her father, and my husband," I interrupted, closing my fingers on her other arm. "Let us go, Raoul. You are making a scene."

"I'd think you'd be well accustomed to men who make scenes by now, Christine," he sneered.

My head shook. "Do not play petty games, Raoul. Just let us go."

"I want to see her face."

Numb shock took me, and I watched with neutral expression as his fingers easily ripped the black sashes free of the mask, and pulled it loose. Sonora did not seem to mind, much, as he gave out a little cry, and dropped the mask. She caught it, and clutched it to her chest, as she began walking towards the door again. Realizing that, in his own shock, he had forgotten to hold her, I immediately lifted her in my arms and moved as quickly as I could out of the opera house.

No voice begged for my return, that time.

* * *

"Mother?" 

"Hm?" I answered, as I tucked the sheets up around her shoulders. Fingers idly plucked at her curls, and smoothed them out.

"Why do I wear a mask?"

I frowned a bit. "Your father.. spoke with you about this, did he not?"

One of her fragile shoulders gave a shrug. "He said that... it was for you, that we wore them. He said that you were ashamed of us, and that if we wore masks, we could be like everybody else, and you would not mind as much, anymore."

My mouth gaped. Erik had truly said that? With teary eyes, I bent over my daughter and kissed her forehead. "Your father did not mean to say that," I told her, with strained vocals. "He was mistaken, in such a thing—I love you both, very much, Sonora, and no mask, and no face beneath it, could ever change that."

"So, then, why…?"

I sniffled. "I suppose, for your own sakes, and for the sakes of those around you. People... are not always accepting of that which they do not understand, Sonora."

"Like the gold—"

"No, ma'am..."

With a huff, she continued, "Like Monsieur le Vicomte?"

I gave a nod. "Yes, like Monsieur le Vicomte. He does not understand why I love you and your father, and therefore seeks to make it seem like a bad thing. He is a foolish man, Sonora, but many men are foolish."

"So.. you would not mind, if I did not wear the mask?"

"No, my darling! I would like it, very much, if you did not."

"Good." With a smile, she squeezed her eyes shut. "Goodnight!"

I laughed, and kissed her forehead again. "Goodnight, angel..."

* * *

"Christine!" 

I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the world of the living. Groggily, I sat up, curls matted and formed in such distinctively hideous ways that not even in favor of imagery shall I tell you about them. I heard a crash from behind the study door, and with a frown, pushed the covers back and slipped to my feet. I had grown used to being awaked by screams of rage; no longer did I shock into wakefulness, trembling with fright. It was the same as any other manner of waking, now—it was as natural to me as a particularly noisy alarm clock.

"Christine!" came that angry bellow again. With a sigh, and one fist scrubbing my eyes, I reached out to grope for my robe in the darkness. Its silky material was found and draped around my shoulders.

"I'm coming!" I called weakly as my fingers fumbled to tie the sash. Several timorous steps led me to the door of the study. It thrust itself open moments before I touched the knob, nearly knocking me backwards off of my feet. Only a single startled step rescued me from such a fate.

Erik stood in the frame, filling the opening almost completely. His shoulders heaved with angry breaths, and I could hear the pants whistling in his nostrils. "Christine," he snarled. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" I retorted immediately, feeling almost insulted that he would turn an accusing finger on me the moment he misplaced something.

A hand wrapped itself around my wrist and dragged me forwards, into the complete darkness of his study. "Erik, what are you—?"

_"Where is it!_"

"Where is _what_!"

"The mask!"

Oh. Well, he certainly had not misplaced _that_. With a resigned sigh, I moved towards where I knew his desk to be, feeling my way through the shadows carefully. I reached out with one hand to flick on the lamp, but found only empty air. Certain that I had not miscalculated but determined to find the lamp, I continued to carefully grope through the night for several more seconds, before recalling the crash.

With tense muscles and a face already twisted into a preparatory wince, I turned towards where last Erik had been standing.

"Angel?"

Only silence met my ears. My heart's beat quickened as I felt my way desperately towards the door, hand fumbling for the light switch. It flipped on, and warm light flooded the room. I almost did not want to turn around.

The curiosity was killing me.

I turned slowly, to find the room a complete wreck. Only his instruments and their lone corner stood untouched; the rest of the room had been torn to pieces in search of that mask. Erik was standing in the middle of it all, surveying his destruction with quiet contemplation. I moved up behind him, hands resting on his upper arms. I gave him a light tug. "Come to bed, Angel," I crooned. "We shall find the mask in the morning..."

"No," he said, jerking himself from beneath my grasp. "I want to find it now."

"Erik, please, I think—"

"I want to find it now!" With those words, he spun on me, fiery eyes burning into my soul as he looked down on me. I could not help but feel afraid, as he turned that hateful gaze on my form.

"I... Yes, Erik, of course. A-as you wish." I turned sharply on my heel and picked my way across the room, shutting its door firmly behind me. The mask was obviously not in his study, and I had a relatively good idea of where to find it.

_Sonora..._

I edged along the path to my daughter's bedroom, trying to move as quietly as possible. When I reached her door, my fingers curled around the knob and turned it slowly. The door did not make a peep as I opened it, and yet still, I found her mismatched eyes upon me, when I stepped within. She was seated at her fireplace, where a fire now steadily burned.

"Sonora..." I sniffed, and frowned. "What is that smell?"

In answer, one chubby finger lifted to point at the fire. Dread slowly turned my insides cold, as I stepped towards the fireplace. Atop the logs, I could see two shapeless white masses.

"Dear God, Sonora, what have you done?"

In response to my whispered words, she only smiled, and said, "I have destroyed our prisons."

My hand pressed against my stomach with brutal force. "Sonora... Go downstairs, to Henri's room."

She frowned. "Why?"

I shook my head. "Just go, Sonora." I cut off her attempt at arguing with a rapidly gesturing hand. "Quickly! Go!"

I watched the white-clad little figure as it tumbled down the stairs and rushed across the foyer, on its way to Henri's room. With my lips pressed in a grim line, I sank down onto the edge of her bed, to watch as the two masks—the two prisons—slowly became another smoky existence of oblivion. "Oh, Sonora," I breathed. "Erik will have our heads..."

Judgment day came sooner than I expected—sooner, as in only moments after Sonora had gone downstairs. With a voice devoid of any real interest, he asked, "What is that smell?"

My head turned to see him leaning against the door jamb of the entrance to her room. One hand gestured him forwards, and then patted the bed beside me. He indulged me, slowly settling down beside me and gathering one of my hands in his own. "I am sorry I yelled," he said after a moment. "I did not mean..."

"Shh..." My other hand patted his, and then pointed to the fire. "Your daughter has done something," I said slowly, eyes focused on him. "I think.. perhaps..."

His grip tightened on my hand, as he looked into that fire. "Those... She..."

I nodded. "Please, Erik, do not be mad with her—she thought only to—" He turned to look at me, and the words died on my lips. "Erik?"

"It seems tonight is just full of surprises, Christine."

My jaw dropped. He knew? No... There was no way for him to have known. I tried to pull my face into one of confusion. "What do you mean, Erik?"

He shrugged, and stood, hands drawing me along with him. "I will make new masks in the morning. Now... Let us go to bed."

I nodded, and followed him down the hall and into our own rooms. When I lay down on the bed, I caught his shirt in my fingers, and pulled him down beside me. "Sing for me," I begged, and not a bit of the desperation in my voice was an act. It had been so long since he had sung for me... since I had sung for him...

I stretched out alongside his body, my own skin cooling even as his began to heat. In the beginning, a toneless jumble of notes was all I heard—until I closed my eyes. Then, they began to take shape, take rhythm, and in that tune, I could almost see, hear, feel, two young and happy lovers, sprawled out and entwined with the sheets and each other. It was not us—these two were content—sane—perfect. It was how he wanted us. It was how he would have written us, in an opera. Perfect, innocent, eternal love. We had only two of the three—perhaps even only one, at times—and I believe the missing ingredient was one of the more important, to him. "I'm sorry," I murmured against his chest.

"Shh," he crooned between notes. He continued that song, perhaps not even aware of what vision he was communicating to me. In only moments, he had me struggling to keep my tears silenced. The song's vision shifted, then, and almost immediately, I knew what he wanted.

He saved me the trouble of interrupting him to ask, by pausing, and posing the question on his own. "Will you go with me, to Paris?"

That desire did not frighten me. What did frighten me was that, when he began singing again, it was only a moment before the tune became hauntingly and devastatingly similar to the _Dies Irae._


	8. Darkness Descends

I woke the next morning to the click of his study door closing, and though his feet were silent on the bedroom carpet, my heart easily tracked his passage. As he neared the bed, I sat up, my doe-eyes peering into the pair of flames that cut through the darkness of the room. Almost before I knew he had moved, there was a hand on my shoulder blade, and another entwining itself with my hair. His mouth met mine with a hungry snarl; the sheer force of the kiss was bruising.

The hand in my hair clenched, and jerked my head back. My vision brightened, and for one irrational moment, I feared that he had snapped my neck. The brightness faded, however, and the pain was distracted by my body's more current affliction: the teeth at my throat. They evolved from passionate kisses, to angry tearings of the flesh, though I was nearly sure that no blood was let. I cried out—in terror or ecstasy, I was not certain which.

Cold, slender fingers slipped beneath the collar of my gown, and ripped it open in one smooth motion. The air that hit my skin was like fire compared to the icy angel who was lying me back on the bed. His clothes were gone, though I was certain they had been there only moments before. That frigid body kneeled on the bed beside me, eyes glaring down.

I dared not move.

Slowly, his hands began to roam my body—an act he was well familiar with, by now. Every tender spot, every favored sensation was granted, and it was not at all long before he had me soaring towards bliss. And then, stillness. My body writhed on the bed, hips thrusting upwards of their own design. He sat, watching my misery, without a movement. My hands, which had previously clenched onto my pillow, now released their hold and moved to touch him.

I did not even see his motion, as he drew that terrible lasso from nowhere at all, and tightened it around my wrists. This, he secured to the bed; a similar act was performed on each of my ankles, though these were kept separate.

For the first time since Paris, I truly feared him. There had been moments, of course, throughout the years—days of terror, hours in which he had been of such a temper that I had been certain my life was at liberty—but never had I done more than doubt his ability to recall who I was, what I meant to him. Now, though... Now, I fully expected to be permanently maimed, if not killed, and I was near certain that he knew exactly what he was doing.

This was no blind anger. This was calculated, icy hatred.

As my body cascaded into trembling fear, his hands began to roam again. They were gentle, and loving—they gave naught but pleasure. It was not long before he had seduced my body again, coaxed my mind into emptiness. My body was once again climbing towards that sinful pleasure, and he allowed me to come painfully close to release this time, before once again falling still. I let out a frustrated cry, straining against my bonds. Tears were spilling readily from my eyes.

"Why are you doing this?"

He did not answer.

Several times more, he played that terrible game with me, employing every intimate detail he knew of my body and using it to hurt me. Again and again, I begged him, but no release from that misery was permitted.

Finally, finally, that frigid body covered mine. I felt his breath on my cheek moments before he began trailing kisses across my skin. Every sensation was painful; my senses, through repeated promise and subsequent betrayal, had become almost bruised. I let out a weak moan, as his lips tenderly closed over mine.

"You belong to _me_," he whispered, and I nodded in affirmation. "You.. are.. **mine**!" I flinched away from the severity of his tone, but again, nodded.

"Yes, Erik," I murmured. "I am yours... _Yours_..."

He thrust into me forcefully, and I cried out. My body reveled in finally being granted that much-desired sensation, at the same time that it fought against the pain of his actions. Each of his movements was too hard, too brutal. Each thrust was met with another cry, and each cry grew weaker than the last.

"Erik," I pouted, "you're hurting me!"

His teeth closed on the skin of my collarbone as my sole reply.

With only a few more breaths, I climaxed, arching beneath him. His own release was simultaneous. Only a moment was spent before he rolled off of me, stood, and began to dress.

I could not feel my hands, and my feet could only tingle feebly. With my heart pounding wildly—from fright, now—I cleared my throat. "Erik?"

Silence.

"Erik.. my hands... Untie me, please?"

"Be quiet," he growled.

Those words shocked—and wounded—me. "E-Erik?"

"Silence!" he snarled.

A bit of anger allowed me the courage to disobey. "Y-you can't just leave me like this!"

Cold, gentle words, as he sat down on the edge of the bed: "Can't I?"

"Erik..." Fear put a tremor in my voice. "Erik, what is wrong? Why are you doing this to me?" He did not answer, but I kept going, regardless. "Y-you hurt me, Erik... You frighten me! Please, untie me! We can... talk about this..."

He turned his head to the side, glaring at me from the corner of his eyes. "I do not _want _to talk about it, Christine. Why am I doing this? Why did you go to see Raoul? Why did you laugh, and flirt, and touch? You did not see me... in the shadows, watching... like in Paris... You did not see me... but you see me now!" His voice was becoming more and more fervent. "You betrayed me!" That voice broke, and I could hear him ripping at his chest, could see him rocking slowly. "You.. betrayed me..."

"No, Erik!" I cried, straining towards him. "I did not betray you, my love—my Angel! Please, Erik, untie me!" I was weeping as desperately as he was, as frustration welled up in me. I wanted to hold him, to assure him, and could do nothing but argue pitifully from my unfortunate position.

"No... no, no, no! You will leave me, and you will leave Sonora, and you will flee these monsters, and go free with him!" He was retreating from the bed, ignoring my screams, ignoring my pleas. "You will stay with me," he said quietly, as he opened the study door.

"Erik, wait! I..." _Think, think!_ "I'm cold!"

"I'll send Henri, with a blanket." The door was closing, on my husband and on my only chance.

"Erik!"

"Go back to sleep, Christine. It is not yet dawn."

"I love you!" I cried.

He paused, and my heart leapt with joy. "I know," he whispered, moments before shutting the door and leaving me again in darkness.

* * *

"Mama?"

My eyes fluttered open, swollen and sticky from constant tears. Certain I had imagined that sweet voice—Sonora had never once in her life called me "Mama"—I allowed my eyes to shut again.

"No, Mama! Wake up!"

I tried again, and felt the blessing of cool, damp cloth on my lip, and then on my eyelids. A soft blanket had been tucked around my body. "Sonora?"

"Oh, Mama!" Her arms wrapped around my neck happily. "I'm so glad you're awake. The whole house is silent, except Papa is playing. Henri was too afraid to come up here. He thought I would be safer." As she spoke, she crawled up onto the bed, and began picking steadily at her father's bonds.

"Sonora, don't bother. You'll never—" A sudden rush of pain accompanied the blood now flowing into my right ankle. Soon, my left foot followed, and Sonora began massaging them gently. "Thank you, my darling," I gushed. "Oh, thank you..."

"I do not know if I can free your hands. Papa's noose... I have not yet mastered all its secrets." The shock that she was being taught the secrets of the Punjab was set aside, in favor of attempting to think.

"Sonora, what if he—?"

She gave me a degrading look. "You know what he is like when he is writing."

I smiled a little, and nodded. "Of course." She crawled to the top of the bed and began working on the lasso. Suddenly, the silence occurred to me, and with the tremble of fear in my voice, I whispered, "Sonora?"

"Hm?"

"Did you say Papa was composing?"

Her fingers paused. "Yes... Why?"

"Why can I not hear the music?"

We both hovered in silence for a moment, before she began to attack the lasso with a controlled frenzy. Finally, she broke through its cruel barrier, and I struggled to rise. My hands and feet ached, but I ignored them, and somehow managed to pull on and tie my robe. Sonora grabbed hold of my hand. "I'm coming with you," she said, in a tone I dared not contest.

We crossed the room and nearly flew out the door, down the stairs, and across the foyer. My hand had just fallen onto the doorknob that would admit us freedom, when that mighty voice boomed through the house, sounding for all the world like the very voice of God.

**"Where are you going?"**

I spun, back pressed against the door, as I stared up at him. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking as powerful and glorious and _terrifying_ as he had in Paris. I was still trying to find the words to answer him when there was a knock on the door, directly against my back. I screamed, and launched myself forward—the fright would have been amusing, under different circumstances.

Sonora calmly opened the door, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. With a growl, she turned to look at me. "This is bad timing," she muttered, as she pushed the door open. Raoul stood on our doorstep, looking confused. When he saw me, saw what Erik's hands—and mouth—had done to me the night before, he started forwards.

I braced my hands on the door and pushed with all my might, managing to shut it against him. Numb fingers locked him out. As Raoul's fists began pounding on the door, accompanied by shouts of my name, I felt Erik's rage skyrocket to murderous degrees.

Slowly, I turned to face him, before running up the stairs to his side. Fear was abolished, and I forced myself to cling to him desperately. "You frightened us, Erik... We were stupid, to run, but that foolishness has passed, I swear it!" My hand tipped his head towards me. "Erik, if he gets in here, he will not understand. He will call the authorities, and he will have Sonora and I both taken away from you!"

His hands closed over mine, and immediately he became my gentle, loving husband. "I will not let that happen," he promised. "I will kill him if I must."

My hands tightened on his. "Erik, no! Then _you _will be taken from _us_!"

He only smiled, and shook his head. "Let the boy in."

"No, Erik!—No! Sonora!" My daughter froze, hand on the door knob, staring at us both like a deer caught in headlights. Before my husband could speak, I flung out desperate words.

"Do you want to live like everybody else?"

Whatever words had been on Erik's lips died. Slowly, Sonora nodded her head.

"Would living like a fugitive—always in masks, always in shadows, always running—be like everybody else?"

A shake in the negative, this time.

"Sonora," I said—slowly, to press my point—"if you open that door, _that _is how we will be forced to live."

She backed away from the door.

"Go to Henri," I suggested, and she nearly leapt at the chance to obey. I turned now to Erik, confidence already boosted by my one victory. I could not read his eyes, but my fingers tightened on his even more, and I peered into the flames of his eyes as earnestly as I could. "Please, Erik... Let Henri answer it. Turn him away. We... Take me back to bed. I can't..." I slumped against his chest. "My ankles... So tired..." And though it was over-acted, there was truth behind the words.

His arms caught me, as I knew they would. "He will come back," he whispered, even as he gestured to Henri—who must have come when Sonora came running into his room—to open the door. Those strong arms lifted me, and tucked me against his chest.

"Then we will turn him away again, and again." My arms wrapped around his neck. "I am not his to claim. He will not return forever."

My heart was thumping wildly as he turned away from the stairs, and began towards the bedroom. For now, he was Erik—but how long, before he again became the Phantom? The injuries I had sustained were superficial, but what would have become of me without the interference of my daughter, and the distraction of Raoul? How long would he have left me in that bed?

"Christine!" Raoul shoved past Henri, looking around for me. The butler shoved him out, but not before the young man's eyes found Erik and I. "He cannot keep you forever!" he yelled. "I will—" The door slammed shut, and only muffled noise could be discerned.

I felt Erik's chest swell, and the corpse's face turned to stare down at the door. His arms already threatened to drop me.

"Erik..."

"No," he said firmly. "He must be—"

I cut him off with a kiss. I held it as long as I could bear, and when I drew back, tears were rimming in his eyes. "Take me to bed, Erik," I said gently.

"To.. bed?" he asked slowly. His meaning was clear—he did not expect me to return to him. Perhaps, I should not have, and truly it looks like madness, to do as I have done. Perhaps I _was_mad.

"Yes, Erik," I answered, as I lay my head down on his shoulder. Hair, still tousled from the night before, spilled across his arm and back, as my lips fell to rest against the skin of his neck. "To _our _bed," I whispered, and he slid into motion.

* * *

Later that morning at breakfast, I found that I could concentrate on nothing but eating. The mere thought of food caused my stomach to turn, but the more I felt sick, the more I wanted to eat—the more I became convinced that I had developed some sort of eating disorder. Sonora, I believe, was naïve to my odd behavior, but Erik cast me many a strange look as I sat shoveling food into my mouth as if I were some pitiful, starved dog that had been blessed by charity. I had awoken early that morning, and gone to the trouble of setting up a schedule for myself that would keep me moving, keep me active—and, much of the time, keep me outside. It was unfortunate that the trip to Paris—scheduled for several days hence—would disturb my schedule when I had not even had time to set it in stone, but I intended to return to it as soon as we returned.

I told myself _we_ would return with an almost violent force. I would not allow myself to believe anything less. Erik, Sonora, and I would go on this little trip, and then we would return, all three of us, just as healthy and happy as we had been before.

I could not bear the thought of the alternative.

When we had finished our meal, we parted—Sonora and I to pack, Erik to set up arrangements for his business to be taken care of while he was away. I helped Sonora just long enough to realize that she needed no help, and then retreated to my own room. I dragged out our suitcases, musty-scented from disuse, and began moving about the room, folding and carefully setting away each of the articles of clothing that I had deemed necessary, for Erik and I. He had agreed to leave it up to me, to pack his things, though I believe he did so with some trepidation—my status as wife and mother was little more than a marriage contract and a birth certificate; I had few wifely qualities, and he knew it.

It was only halfway through his packing, my own not yet begun, when I heard an odd _clink_ at the bedroom window. Frowning, I moved towards it, one thin hand drawing back the curtains. I was horrified to find Raoul standing on my lawn, on _Erik's _lawn, mindlessly throwing pebbles at the window. I pressed a hand against the glass to beg him to be still, and then rushed out of the room. He had enough sense to be in the back yard, at least, and thus was I able to slip out onto the back porch and down the steps.

He had grabbed hold of me before even a word could be said. Firm hands began dragging me away from the house, as he muttered something about rescuing me, "as I should've all those years ago".

I bit my lip against the desire to cry out for Erik, and instead weakly attempted to break his grip on my arm. "Raoul," I whispered sharply, "stop this insanity! There's nothing from which you need rescue me!"

He paused, and turned a saddened look upon me. "He has you so brainwashed that you cannot even see—"

My free hand collided sharply with his cheek. So stunned was he that he released my arm, and without thinking, I turned and ran back towards the house. He shoved his way in through the back door before I could lock it, and instead of continuing to struggle I just rushed up the stairs and into the main compartment of the house, he ever trailing me.

"Christine, you must listen to reason!" he shouted, with no regard for his own safety. "This is foolishness! I must get you away from him!"

"Raoul, be quiet!" I begged, hands pressing the air between us as if to suppress the volume his voice had risen to. "He will hear you!"

"Let him hear me!" the foolish boy bellowed. "I want the monster to hear me! Let the beast come!"

_Oh, God,_ I recall thinking—_he's lost his mind! _

"Erik!" he yelled, cocking his head back as we reached the foyer. "Oh mighty Phantom—do you hear me? I am here to take her from you, Erik!"

"Foolish _child_!" I screamed. "He'll kill you! He'll kill us both!"

I started up the stairs, horrified to find Sonora standing at the top. She peered down at us, maskless, with numbed expression. "Mama?" she whispered. "What is he doing here?"

"I don't know, honey," I said quickly as I reached her. "Go back to your room. Go quickly!"

"Mama," she continued, eyes widening, "Papa will be _so mad_!"

I could hardly think, for the sound of my heartbeat. Hands shaking, I gave her a gentle shove towards her room. "Go, Sonora," I said tonelessly, and she obeyed.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed my elbow, and gave me a sharp tug down the stairs. "Leave them, Christine!" Raoul begged. "Leave them, and come with me! You may stay with Mari and I, until you find a home of your own—"

"Christine?" The questioning note in my husband's voice brought unhindered tears to my eyes, and I choked out a sob. My eyes, blurry though their vision was, managed to find him, poised at the opening to the east wing. He, too, was maskless—he had not yet had time to sit down and mend the damage our daughter had done, and honestly, I preferred it that way.

"Erik," I managed to whisper through my tears, hands reaching out towards him. Raoul tried to pull me farther down the stairs, but I threw myself to the floor like a child, and tried to make myself as heavy as possible. When he continued to pull, I reacted in the only way my brain could imagine: I screamed.

That scream launched Erik into action, and almost before I realized he'd moved, he was standing over us both, that wicked lasso in his hands. "I let you live once, boy," he snarled, "I won't allow you that privilege a second time."

I heard a click, and out of the corner of my eye, saw the glint of metal. I twisted my head, and saw a pistol in Raoul's hand. "I'm taking her away from here, Erik."

"No, Raoul!" I struggled out of his grip, managed to stand. "Leave! Leave, please!" I begged. "Your aid is neither desired nor needed—just _go_!"

I took a faltering step backwards, and then another, until I felt the coolness of Erik on my back. Shivering, I managed to keep eye contact with Raoul.

"Christine," Raoul said, "step aside."

I shook my head quickly.

The pistol rose, took aim over my shoulder. "Please move, Christine," he repeated, at the same moment that Erik begged me with similar phrase. Again, I shook my head.

"Mama!" squealed Sonora—two heads, mine and Erik's, turned in the direction of our daughter.

"Sonora, no!" I screamed. "Go back to your—"

I was cut off by the roar of a gunshot, and as I felt the wet, hot spray of blood on my skin, I did what any foolishly delicate woman would have done.

I fainted.


	9. The Angel's Requiem

_—A/N—_

_Clannad's "Celtic Moods" is the song mentioned at the end of this chapter, that Christine references singing. I recommend listening to it. In other news, this is the next-to-last chapter of this story. For once, I actually intend to end something! Can you believe it? ...Neither can I._

* * *

I woke with a start, only moments after losing consciousness. Suddenly recalling what had happened, I let out a hysterical scream, and turned to look behind me, expecting to find Erik's body. Instead, I found only empty stair, at the top of which Sonora stood looking dumbly upon the scene before her. Frightened, I turned to look in front of me, and was relieved to find Henri and my husband bent over something at the bottom of the stairs. 

Erik lived. So intense was my relief that it did not occur to me to wonder what they looked at; instead, I rose to shaky limbs and half-stumbled down the staircase. Erik looked up moments before I reached him, and just barely managed to catch me as I threw myself into his arms, holding him in vice-like grip. He returned the endearment with no less intensity.

It occurred to me, after a moment, that _someone _had been shot. It had not been Erik, or Sonora, or Henri, or myself...

Horrified, I looked down at my feet, to find Raoul in a steadily growing pool of blood. Henri was bent over him, attempting to press a towel to the boy's shoulder.

"Oh my god," I whispered, immediately feeling dizzy again. "Erik, is he...?"

Erik tightened his grip on me, and turned my head away. "We had every right, Christine," he murmured. "He came to our home, threatened to steal you away, brandished a weapon at us—at your daughter, Christine!"

Numbly, I nodded.

"He would have killed me, Christine. He had every intention of killing me..."

Excuses. Erik would not have hesitated to murder the boy, even if he had pointed only a water-gun at us. Still, I knew that it was truth—Raoul had intended to kill in order to save me... I let out a sob, and buried my head in Erik's shoulder, arms tightening around him. Of course, I would not have wanted Raoul to take me away... but he had meant only good...

"Come, Christine," Erik said softly, lifting me in his arms as if I were a child and again carrying me up those grand stairs. "You need to rest..." And though I struggled against him, my mind was unwilling to or incapable of denying him, and even before we had reached the bed, my eyelids were drooping.

* * *

I turned my head away from the blurry countryside beneath us, to look at the man seated across from me. Sonora was at the other end of the private jet, with Henri, playing a card game. Erik was engrossed in his book—some collection of poetry or another. A similar collection lay in my lap, though I had been staring at the same page for hours. 

_Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man--  
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,  
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd  
To his great heart none other than a God!_

I lifted a hand to brush away a tear at the corner of my eye. When my eyes again raised to Erik, I found him looking at me from behind his newest mask. I shut the book, and cast it aside, before standing and migrating to Erik's seat. His own book was slowly set to one side, and then he pulled me down into his lap. "What is the matter?" he asked softly, as his arms enfolded me.

I raised the mask, using my other hand to turn his face towards me. My lips found his, drank of that sweet honey for a long moment, before pulling away. I buried my face into his neck, and continued kissing the skin there. "You know I love you?" I whispered.

"Yes, Angel... I know you do..."

I nodded, and lifted my head again, eyes seeking out his own. "Erik," I said slowly, "why are we going to Paris?"

One shoulder shrugged, and he settled the mask back into place. "It is best to escape the publicity involved with the Vicomte's... unfortunate demise." He paused, obviously uncomfortable, and then added, "In addition, there are things that need doing," he said cryptically. "Unfinished business, as it were."

"Erik, tell me the truth. Why are we going to Paris?"

"Unfinished business," he repeated.

I shook my head. "Business you left unfinished for all these years?"

A strange emotion quivered in the air between us for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with something indiscernible. "Yes," he said slowly. "I have been.. putting it off, for your sake, and for Sonora's..."

My heart skipped a beat. And another. And another. I tried to suck in a breath of air, and quite nearly could not. My vision was fuzzy; I tightened my grip on Erik, shut my eyes, and returned my face to being nuzzled up against his neck. "Oh, Erik, please, no..."

His arms tightened, and he laughed a little. "Do not weep, my angel... It may not be as bad as you think..."

I raised my head to frown at him through my tears. "Please, Erik... Do not leave me! I thought you dead for one sickening moment—I could not bear it if you truly were..."

One finger brushed against my cheek. "I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.' Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, like wealthy men who care not how they give."

I could not help but smile a little through my tears. "How did you know I was reading _Tithonus_?"

"Intuition," he answered, eyes crinkling with what must have been a grin. I was suddenly possessed with the undeniable desire for angelic lips upon my own; without moving slowly enough to receive acceptance or denial from him, I slid the mask off, swept his face up into my hands, and kissed him passionately.

* * *

When we reached our hotel suite in Paris, Erik stayed only long enough to settle in before giving me a quick kiss and dashing out the door, into the Parisian night. Henri stayed with us, saw to such tasks as supper—and getting his hands onto a movie for Sonora—and then retired to his own room, to leave mother and daughter snuggled down into bed together. 

It was almost dawn, when Erik returned, looking haggard. I slipped silently away from Sonora, crossed the room to where he stood, slowly removing his cloak and hat. "Erik?" I whispered.

"Shh," he said immediately. "Do not wake Sonora."

I remained silent for a moment, but when he turned to face me, I caught him by the shoulder and forced him into stillness. "Erik," I whispered again, "where were you?"

He gave a little shrug. "Visiting with old business partners."

I waited for more, but he offered nothing, and so reluctantly we returned to bed. Both of us slept well into the morning, for I had slept only a few moments for fear that he would not return to me. Sonora, however, had woken nearly at dawn, and immediately demanded breakfast and entertainment. Luckily, Henri guided her away from the bed of her sleeping parents and took her downstairs, to mingle amongst a people with whom she could not help but be fascinated.

Erik woke first, and it was only his rising from bed that brought me struggling out of sleep. I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, and watching him as he prepared for the day. When he had showered and dressed, and was beginning to open the door, I leapt up and rushed towards him. "Erik, where are you going?" I asked quickly.

He smiled softly, and kissed my forehead. "Out," he said simply—infuriatingly. "I will be home soon."

"Can I not come with you?" I asked with a pout.

He shook his head slowly. "No, Christine," he answered in an odd tone of voice. "You must stay, to take care of Sonora."

"Henri can—"

"No, Christine," he said, fingers brushing my cheek. "You must stay." And then he was gone.

All day long, I paced our room, unable to bring myself to leave. The sun made its steady path across the sky, each circuit of the hour hand causing me more and more anxiety. His words had confused me, had frightened me. Why had he spoken so cryptically? Why had we come to Paris to begin with?

I wrung my hands together, finding the tears of a silly girl tempting to spill down my cheeks. Angrily, I dashed them away, teeth gnawing into my lip.

In an attempt to distract myself, I sat down on the end of the bed and turned on the television. A date flashed across the screen—today's date—and I felt the world rock unsteadily to one side. The same day, all those years ago, that I had dragged him from the Garnier and convinced him to go with me into the world. The same day he had freed Raoul. The same day I had declared myself his wife. The same day we had flown from Paris, hoping never to return.

The same day he had very nearly died.

Letting out a cry, I hurried to fetch my coat and shoes. As I drew my coat out of the closet, I heard a loud crinkle come from the left pocket. Frowning, I drew out a folded manila envelope, from which I produced a thick packet of papers—black type, mostly, mixed in with Erik's awkward scrawl. My mouth dropped as I read the title.

Abandoning the idea of wasting time on shoes or a coat, I threw myself out the door—just as Henri was beginning to open it for Sonora.

"Mama?"

"Christine? Where are you going?"

"I must find Erik!" I shouted for explanation, as I ran down the hall. Just before I ran out of earshot, I heard Henri murmur to himself as he picked up the manila envelope. "Last Will and Testament... Oh my god!"

Too impatient for elevators, I rushed down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time and often leaping past the last few to land, staggering, on the landing.

When I reached the streets, I did not hesitate, but began running wildly down the crowded twilight sidewalks. I knew where the Garnier lay—this city had been my home, after all, and the Garnier the center of my life. I could have found it if one had blindfolded me and dropped me, from a helicopter, into any quarter of the city. There would always be that irrepressible draw towards it, always that pull, as if a string was drawn from my heart to the opera-house.

Or at least, to its cellars.

As I careened wildly down the Rue Scribe, pushing past anyone and everyone who stood in my way, I heard the clock chime. Ten-thirty. Darkness had taken the city, and I had only a half-hour before my half-tattered mind had decided Erik would die. Had he not always promised the end would come at eleven o'clock?

I was horrified to find the Rue Scribe gate half-opened; the lock had been destroyed, clumsily at that. It made me almost falter, for Erik was not one to do things clumsily, but I pushed onwards for fear of being mistaken.

It had been many years since I had descended into those cellars on my own, many years since I had been forced to remember my way through those dreadful chambers. I moved forwards with such purpose that it could have been only yesterday that he had shown me how to navigate. Freshly-disturbed cobwebs secured my worst fears—someone (and who else, but Erik?) had come this way. My only obstacle was the steady flow of tears clouding my vision.

As I broke through onto the shore of the lake, I found the boat moored to the other side. Shivering once, I resigned myself to the cold, and plunged into the icy waters. At first, I felt nothing; it was as if I were moving only through the cold air of the cellars, and not as if I were swimming through subzero temperatures. Soon, however, the numbness hit me like a thousand knives being plunged into my stomach. I felt my muscles cramp, felt my skin begin to crawl, and it was not until I was trapped in the middle of that lake that I began to recall how truthfully frightened I had been of that subterranean world.

Up until that moment, my mind's only occupation had been Erik's safety. I had thought only of my husband, and of his life. But now my own mortality occurred to me, and for one sickening moment I wondered if this had been Erik's intention—for both of us to die. It was certainly operatic, but I doubted that he wished it to be so—after all, had he not commanded me to stay, for Sonora's sake?

Finally, after what seemed to be hours, I emerged on the opposite shore. Every inch of me trembled, every inch of me dripped and stunk of that stagnant water. Pushing ever onwards, however, I struggled to trigger the opening of his house. To my surprise, however, I found the door already open; whether he had left it thus, or whether through disrepair it had become incapable of closing, I will never know.

"Erik?" I called through chattering teeth; my voice cracked. "Erik? Erik, where are you!"

Feeble vocals came from the Louis-Philippe room. "Ch-Christine?"

I let out a loud sob, and stumbled down the hall. "Oh, Erik!" I cried, as I half-fell into the room. He was prostrate on the bed, dressed in funeral clothes, mask lying on the bedside table.

"Christine," he moaned, "why did you come here? Why, my angel? I told you.. to stay..." His sentence was cut off by a loud, rasping cough; he curled in on himself, eyes closing in pain.

"Erik, no!" I rushed to his side, wrapping my arms around him tightly. "You can't," I sobbed. "You can't, you can't, you can't!"

I felt his arms wrap around me, face burying into my neck. "I have no choice, my angel," he whispered. "It is long past time..."

This only increased the violence of my sobs, my entire frame beginning to tremble. "_You can't leave me!_"

He did not bother to reply this time, merely clutched me tighter. "Oh, my sweet little songbird," he whispered. "I wish I could stay..."

I pulled back, looking at him through my tears, and sniffled loudly. "But you can!" I demanded childishly.

His head shook, hands taking mine. "You will bury me by the little well, will you not, Christine?"

I sobbed, shaking my head stupidly.

Abandoning that argument, he instead moved on. "Christine," he wheezed, "will you sing for me?"

My lips pulled down in a frown. "Erik..."

He shook his head, and then managed a pained smile. "Please, Christine... Will you sing me to sleep?"

Attempting to fight back my sobs, I began to sing an old lullaby my father had once sung to me, the words in Croatian.

_How does the dark live in my heart?  
How does the ocean hold my tears?_

Erik's eyes closed, and I bent over him, hand curling against his cheek. I paused in the song to kiss his eyelids.

_Sweetly, sweetly, sing and I will follow you..._

His arms wrapped around me weakly, and I lay down beside him, limbs entwining with his own. My voice cracked again, as fresh tears began falling. Erik's face buried into my hair, and with a loud sob, I pressed my face into his neck.

"Sing..." he whispered, and I had to obey.

_One day I know, these arms will hold you, here as I sing my lullaby..._

The last word broke off in a sob, and I fell silent. "Erik!" I choked out, grip tightening on him. He did not return the sentiment.

Somewhere in his home, the clock chimed ten-forty-five. "S..ing..." he managed.

Knowing this would be the final tune ever he heard me sing, I somehow successfully put on a brave face and began singing an aria.

_In childhood's early days  
I often heard tell of angels  
who exchange the sublime bliss of  
heaven for the earth's sun,  
so that when a troubled heart  
grieves, hidden from the world,  
bleeding silently to death  
and expiring in tears..._

I heard a gasping sigh, felt his body begin to grow even colder—as if I had ever imagined such a thing possible. I felt a similar chill steal over myself, and the room, and I knew that soon he would be forever gone. Tightening my grip on him, attempting to be ever closer to him—as if that would hold him in this world for a little longer—I continued singing.

_When its fervent prayer  
craves only deliverance,  
then the angel floats down  
and gently bears it toward heaven._

Barely did I fight back a sob; tears were flowing like rivers down my cheeks. I wanted to stop singing, wanted to shower him with kisses and tell him over and again how much I truly loved him, how much he had meant to me, how I could never live without him.

But he wished for me to sing, and so sing I would.

_Yes, an angel has come down even  
to me, and on shining wings_

Another shuddering breath from Erik...

_transports, far from all suffering,_

His hands tightened on my body, back arching as he sucked in air with a final gasp of pain...

_my spirit heavenwards!_

As the last note faded, so did his life; a final, long breath eased from his lungs, carrying a single word on its tide: "_Christine..._"

I collapsed in on him, sobbing loudly, tiny fists beginning to pound both on his chest and the mattress beneath us. "No, no, no!" I repeated again and again, screaming, begging, pleading with God above to bring him back. "I can't lose you Erik!" I screamed. "I can't! I can't lose you!"

I rose up a bit, hands grabbing his lifeless shoulders. "Please, Erik!" I screamed again. "I will sing for you! I will sing every day!" I shook those shoulders, senselessly. "Erik, _please_!"

I collapsed again, arms wrapping around his neck, face nestling down into his cold neck. I continued murmuring through my sobs, but to no avail. I knew, even in my hysteria, that he would not return. He had truly left me this time, had left this world long behind.

"Erik," I whispered weakly. "I love you...!"

It was many hours that I lay by him, holding his body, rocking slowly with it and trying to imagine his voice singing softly in my ear. I had believed, somewhere deep within me, that he would always be there singing songs in my head. And now, he was gone—truly, truly gone, and so was that beautiful angel's voice. Would I forget it?

When finally I rose, I went to that little well, and was almost unsurprised to find that he had already dug himself a grave. Something that was almost a smile caused my lips to twitch, as I turned to the task of placing him within that pit and covering him with the wet soil. There were no words to be said, but as I clumsily lowered the coffin into the ground, I murmured, "My nightingale... My angel... May you be in heaven that which you were to me on earth..."

I stood over that mound of earth for a long time, rocking from toe to heel as I sang an old Celtic mourning song. The tune was a haunting ones, the words themselves meaning little, the sound meaning much. Long, low, dipping notes, those that sounded almost better with the untrained, raw voices of the Celtic women than with my trained, pure voice; still, the strain of my tears supplied just enough rasp and edge to my notes to make it worthy of the song.

As I stumbled slowly through the passages, Erik's mask clutched tightly to my chest, I was shocked to find it nearly dawn. My mind was clogged with blinding sorrow, and with lack of sleep. It seemed impossible that he had truly died; only a few moments, and he had gone forever, left me alone in the world—and it seemed even more impossible that I could have been so happily wrapped in his embrace only twelve hours before, when now he lay in the earth without so much as a gravestone.

When I reached the streets, and the sun first tickled my skin, I was filled with numbing certainty. "Oh, Erik," I whispered to the morning breeze. "Erik, _mon ange_... _Je t'aime_..."

I could almost imagine his voice whispering in my ears as the wind blew past, crooning my name in that sing-song voice that only he possessed. _Christine..._

"Christine!"

Dully, I glanced up, to find Henri rushing towards me. When he inquired after my health, beginning to fuss over my state of dress, I merely held the mask out to him.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, arms wrapping around me. I allowed him to lead me back to the car, following him like a lost sheep. As he steered me into the back seat, I paused, and looked back on the _Palais Garnier_ for the last time.

_

* * *

_

_"With your beauty I am as uninvolved as with horses' manes and waterfalls. I breathe the breathless, 'I love you, I love you', and let you move forever."  
—Leonard Cohen._


	10. Asleep

I had Henri fly back with Sonora, to begin to file away all necessary legal matters involving Erik's will. I myself wanted no hand in it; the matter had left me far too heartsick to even comfort my child. I had sat in bed all night, arms around my legs, rocking back and forth. No more tears would come; I had been left alone, and numb, and empty.

Without Erik, I was nothing.

I checked out of the hotel like one of Erik's automatons of old. I managed all the social courtesies, but left with the disdain of the entire staff for my brusqueness, for my slack-jawed emptiness. I was devoid of emotion; they interpreted that as being devoid of civility.

I got into the car that had been flown into Paris on our plane, and revved the engine. For the first time in ten years, I turned on the radio. I caught the end of a rather peppy-sounding song, and had begun to regret my decision, when the next song came on.

I was immediately caught by the haunting, slow rhythm, and the croon of the man's voice. My mind recognized the man as belong to the Smiths, though I had not before heard that particular song.

_Sing me to sleep... Sing me to sleep...  
I'm tired and I,  
I want to go to bed..._

I sucked in my breath, one hand clamping over my lips. If I had not known better, I'd have thought Erik was somehow doing this from beyond the grave.

_Sing me to sleep... Sing me to sleep...  
And then leave me alone.  
Don't try to wake me in the morning,  
'cause I will be gone..._

Without warning, a sob slipped free, and suddenly that one sound was enough to open the floodgates. I began crying loudly, barely able to see the road for my own tears. My hands tightened on the wheel as I hit the highway, as the rain began beating down steadily on the windshield.

_Don't feel bad for me,  
I want you to know...  
Deep in the cell of my heart  
I will feel so glad to go..._

One hand fumbled to turn up the volume, as my crying grew louder.

_Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep...  
I don't want to wake up on my own anymore..._

Unwittingly, I turned my head to look at the passenger seat. I saw Erik there, on that night after _Faust_, mask off, head tipped back, face illuminated by the moonlight. I saw his eyes closed, his lips parted in ecstasy. I saw that beautiful, perfect face, and I felt the ghost of his hand on my leg, and I could almost imagine that perfect union that I had felt on that night that seemed so very long ago...

_Sing to me, sing to me...  
I don't want to wake up on my own anymore.  
Don't feel bad for me,  
I want you to know...  
Deep in the cell of my heart,  
I really want to go..._

My other hand curled tightly around my waist, as my left leg tucked itself beneath me. Erik's name was choked out again and again between sobs, as my nails clawed at the skin beneath my shirt. Somehow the pain helped; there is something frightening about crying that leaves one feeling numb all over, despite the resounding pain echoing in one's chest.

_There is another world...  
There is a better world..._

Those lines left me even further demolished—it was, even before he continued in half-hopeful, half-mournful tones, the end of any resolve I had held. The highway stretched out in front of me, running to and far over the horizon, as if promising to lead me beyond this pain.

But there would be no end—not until the final one.

And that was one I could feel coming very, very soon...

_There must be...  
Well, there must be...  
There must be..._


End file.
